


Blessed be the Winds Above

by iwanna_seeyou_undoit



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (from a minor character don't worry!), But Not Much, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Infidelity, Shmoop, Smut, Victorians could probably read it no drama, because I'm a nerd and Harry deserves all the best things in the world, gratuitous references to the Greek gods, implied blowjobs is really about it, it's all just boys having a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwanna_seeyou_undoit/pseuds/iwanna_seeyou_undoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has a brief moment where he wants to throw Louis over his shoulder and walk off with him, but he pushes it down. Nothing good can come from dwelling on the feeling in his chest. What he needs to do is get some booze from the bar, get drunk with his mates, and put all thoughts of relationships with cute, English sailor boys safely away in a locked box. As far away from the reckless side of his brain as possible.</p><p>In which Louis is a fisherman and Harry is a lot of things, but a fool isn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed be the Winds Above

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly I'm inept at life and don't know how to include the fan art within the fic, but here is a link - I highly encourage you to go check out thrina's work  
> [because the art is amazing](http://spacehubsands.tumblr.com/post/140368230668/title-blessed-be-the-winds-above-author)

The water is calmer than it has been in days, just gentle waves lapping against the sides of the dinghy, and Harry has taken full advantage. Sebastian has been banging on for weeks about how they need more CRC, and Harry's been delaying a trip to the mainland for days.

He closes his eyes against the light sea breeze, sure to keep his touch on the tiller feather light.

The sun is just beginning to set, and the way the dwindling light touches the water makes Harry’s fingers itch for his brushes. But he’s got a boat full of groceries and his satchel is full of letters, not paint, so he focuses on the approaching shoreline and readies himself to go ashore.

For all that living on a small, sparsely populated Greek island is lovely, there are some drawbacks to the lifestyle. The fact that the supply boats seem to forget to dock at Kalokairi for one, and the complete and utter lack of a working postal system for another. Honestly, it would be quicker to send a message in a bottle than to rely on the mail boat.

Harry wouldn’t exchange living there for the world, though. It’s got everything he needs - working plumbing, somewhere to eat, somewhere to sleep, and people he loves. And when the supply boat _does_ eventually arrive with the island’s groceries, the paints he orders are never damaged.

Kalokairi is his home. But Skiathos is the mainland that has a post box which actually gets emptied every week. Harry will be _shot_ if he doesn’t deliver these invites, even _if_ all the recipients know about the wedding. He daren’t say as much to Sebastian though.

 ---

 

There’s a woman shouting very angry Greek at Harry before he even gets in the door. He sets the grocery bags down - the walk from the Jeep to the house had been a trial of errors, arms loaded with five paper bags, three more hanging from each elbow, and sticks his head into the main living area.

“Elena?” The first thing he notices is the toilet seat lying in the middle of the floor - pale blue standing out against the terracotta tiling. “Where’s Seb?”

“He left with Nikkos an hour ago! Something about the wedding.” Elena waves her hands around the room dramatically, large chest giving her more presence in the room than her small stature. “The toilet is broken again!”

The toilet has been broken ever since Harry arrived with a small suitcase and his satchel, twenty years old and the proud boyfriend of Elena’s nephew. Three years ago she had ushered Harry and Dominic into the tiny toilet and explained gravely that it very rarely flushed on the first attempt, and warned them to be careful when they sat down.

Okay, so Harry was lying about the working plumbing.

He stoops down to collect the toilet seat, no doubt flung there after Elena had offended its mother in all three of her languages. “Just the seat this time, or is it not flushing again?”

The woman sighs, looking every inch the stereotype of a Greek aunt - buxom, robust, and with a wicked temper to match her sense of humour. “Just the seat, Harry. Just the seat.” She looks so tired that Harry steers her by the shoulder until she’s resting on the small sofa in one corner of the room.

“Put your feet up, _theía_. I’ll get right onto it, okay? After I put the shopping away.”

Elena looks up at him in realisation. “Ach, you went to the mainland today. Should have asked you to get some lavender oil.”

“Two steps ahead of you,” Harry thinks of the small bottle of oil in the bags, and of the oil burner he’d bought off a street vendor. Elena hasn’t been sleeping well, never does at this time of year, when there’s always a storm around the corner.

“Always so sweet Harry, thank you.”

In the kitchen, Harry rests his head against the cool wood of the cupboards and takes several deep breaths. Even though it’s nearing eight o’clock at night, the heat is stifling, and it’s messing with his head. He wishes Sebastian or Nikkos were there - someone, anyone to pull him out of his thoughts.

It’s July, there’s a storm due any day now, and it’s the anniversary of his boyfriend leaving him to go marry another man. Three years ago, on Harry’s twentieth birthday, Dominic had rowed Harry from Skiathos to Kalokairi, and introduced him to his aunt Elena. They’d had a proper Greek birthday dinner, and then Dominic had asked Harry to move into Elena’s converted goat house with him.

It had been lovely for a solid five months - swimming in the bay, snogging in front of disapproving grandmothers, laughing themselves sick while they picked olives for Elena’s kitchen. It was, in fact, in the faulty bathroom that he’d met Sebastian - a local boy with sun-bleached hair and an almost perpetual smile. They’d become fast friends, along with Seb’s girlfriend Donna, and another of the residents at the villa, Nikkos. There was a rumour that Dominic was going to propose.

Instead, the day before their one year anniversary, Dominic had loaded a single suitcase into the back of Elena’s Jeep and announced that he was returning to Skiathos to get married. To a man named Tassos whom none of them, Elena included, had heard of.

That was the first time Harry had ever seen Sebastian without a smile on his face. In five months, the one thing that had made his green eyes turn stormy had been seeing Harry curled into himself on the cobblestones outside Elena’s villa. Just sitting there, on the hot stone in the middle of a summer day, staring out at the bay.

Elena had been the one to cry, not Harry. She had thrown a plate at the wall Dominic sat in front of at dinner times, and had cried large, angry tears. She had tucked Harry in to her chest and promised with fury in her voice that she knew nothing of Tassos. She’d known her nephew was _engaged_ , of course, but she thought it was to _Harry_.

After her rage had subsided, she’d informed them all that Dominic had taken the row boat. _That_ was what made Harry cry - not the fact that his boyfriend was getting married tomorrow, but the fact that he’d _rowed_ himself away.

Who the hell steals a row boat?

Elena took Harry on as a handyman and given him free board in her old goat house. With the money he earned, he bought himself a boat - one with a motor and not an oar in sight. He repainted the goat house, threw out the mattress he’d shared with Dominic and replaced it with an air bed he’d bought second hand, and he forgot about the man who had convinced Harry to stop travelling and settle down.

It was only every so often that Harry thought about him now, about the first man he’d truly loved, and about the absolute heartache that had come with it. If Harry had read the story about Apollo and his mortal lover Hyacinthus, he would have stayed well away from Greek boys with dark eyebrows.

He can’t figure out who he is in the story: the sun God - showing off, or the trusting prince killed by his lover’s discus. Dominic is the West Wind who blew the discus off course, that much he’s certain of. How could he be anything else? Or maybe Harry’s the discus - something spectacular that was turned into something devastating with just the flick of a wrist.

Harry lets out a sharp breath and pulls away from the cabinet. He puts the groceries away swiftly, having already wasted enough time, and pours Elena a glass of wine. It’s not her favourite, but it was within their budget, so she’ll have to make do. The last time Harry had splurged on a bottle of red, Sebastian had given them all a lecture about money so long that Harry couldn’t even blame Nikkos for zoning out.

“Here you are, _theía_.” He sets the wine on the small glass topped table next to the woman, and disappears into the bathroom where his tool belt remains from the last time the toilet had broken.

If they want to attract more guests they’re going to need to have _useable_ facilities. A toilet that comes with instructions to _‘flush it, and if it doesn’t-- just try again in five minutes’_ does not fit the definition of ‘useable’.

“Oh, Harry?” Elena calls out just as he’s finishing up. “Sebastian was saying he thinks tonight might be the night.”

There have been clouds building on the horizon for days now, and an island in the middle of the Aegean Sea is a magnet for storms. They’ve been expecting a storm for days now, and everyone’s been briefed on what to do in the event that one does arrive tonight.

“Got it. Batten down the hatches,” Harry sends a slow smile in Elena’s direction and ducks down to fold her into a goodnight hug.

 ---

 

Harry wakes up to Donna shaking both his shoulders. She’s now Sebastian’s fiancée, and they’ve both moved into the villa before they get married. Harry’s disorientated only for a moment, before he hears the wind outside. He’s up and out of bed immediately, wriggling into the closest pair of sweatpants he can find. They aren’t ideal, considering the fact that he’ll no doubt be outside in the rain within the next two minutes, but they’ll have to do.

Donna has already closed the shutters in his room, and he assumes that everyone is already up. Donna confirms as much when she thrusts a plastic poncho at him, and informs him that the others have gone to help the residents living closer to the sea, and that Elena has stayed behind in the kitchen with the guests.

“So the docks, then?” Harry questions, head finally emerging through the hole in the poncho. He doesn’t know why he bothered putting it on, to be entirely honest. It had been cheap when he’d bought it a year ago, it’s next to useless now.

Donna nods, mouth a tight line, and Harry daren’t think about the men who depend on their boats for their livelihoods, boats which will be shadows of their former selves by morning. They’re half way down the hill, past the arched entrance way into the villa, when frantic footfalls behind them make them slow down.

It’s one of Nikkos’ cousins, panting and soaked to the bone. He sets his hands on his knees, getting his breath back, and manages to choke out a mixture of English and Greek. “Harry, the power is out! The baby’s coming!”

Harry barely even waits for his brain to translate the whole message, before he’s sprinting back up the hill towards the house. One of Nikkos’ cousins is pregnant with her first child, but she wasn’t due for another week and a bit. This storm is one of the worst they’ve had in all the time Harry has been living on Kalokairi, and she can’t be giving birth early with no power. The ground is mostly clay, and by the time Harry reaches the small house, he’s covered nearly head to toe in mud and loose soil. He’s met at the door by the father, Christos who takes one look at Harry’s filthy attire and wraps him in a strong hug.

Harry’s older than him, and yet he still feels the younger of the two. Christos is so big - over six foot, with the broad shoulders of someone who’s worked in a field their whole life, and he’s having a _child_. Harry’s happy with his life, but next to this man, his feels rather inadequate.

“Thank God, you’re here!”

Harry shakes his head and takes off his boots before stepping into the house. It’s a bit of a moot point considering how dirty the rest of him still is, but he brushes off Christos’ assurances that he may leave them on. It’s common courtesy, Harry’s not about to disregard it just because of a bit of rain.

They find Nikkos’ cousin in the bedroom, surrounded by her mother, grandmother, and her mother-in-law. Both her father and Christos’ are in the kitchen, fretting about their daughter just down the corridor, and about the lack of light. Harry assures them he’ll have the power back on in no time, and asks where their fuse box is.

Once he’s been pointed in the right direction, all it takes is a bit of poking about whilst balanced on a very precarious chair, and the lights flicker back on. The cheer that runs around the house is comically timed to one of the mother’s screams, and Harry pushes Christos in the direction of the bedroom.

“You think she’ll want me there?” He looks worried, and Harry is suddenly very aware of the additional three years he has over Christos.

“She kicked you out before?” Harry smiles at Christos comfortingly when he nods. “Labour’s tricky. She wants you there. Believe me.” He gives him another shove down the hallway, “Go. Hold her hand.”

Christos gives Harry another enthusiastic, strong boned hug before he hurries in the direction of his wife. Harry can’t contain his smile, despite the fact that the wind is getting stronger, pushing sheets of rain against the house. Soon there’ll be a baby on the island!

Just as he’s about to leave, preparing to open the door and brave the cutting rain that’s now beginning to creep through gaps the wind has made in the shutters, Christos’ mother places a firm hand on his elbow. She’d left the bedroom when her son had arrived, saying that four people in the room were more than enough, especially when there was a fifth of the way.

“You are not going outside. Stay.” Harry goes to protest, but she cuts him off before he can even begin. “The storm is building, you can’t go back outside on your own. And we can’t spare the people to accompany you. Sit down.”

Harry lets her lead him into the kitchen without protest, glad to have an excuse to stay inside away from the weather. He’s even gladder when he gets to welcome little Ava Georgiou into the world a few hours later.

 ---

 

Harry walks into the villa and stops dead. Overnight, the living room has gone from sparsely but tastefully decorated, to absolutely strewn with the contents of a laundromat - underwear held up between the cracks in the shutters, shirts hung over the backs of chairs, _bed sheets_ draped on ropes tethered to door frames, and there appears to be a pair of waders under the coffee table.

Harry doesn’t know anyone who owns waders.

There are bras hanging out the windows, and underwear strewn across the floor. There are _ropes_ hanging from the ceiling.

There’s movement from the kitchen, so Harry goes to investigate. Sebastian is sitting with his feet in the sink because the dining table has been taken over by damp washing as well. He looks up when Harry enters, and casts a dark look at a rope hanging close to his shoulder.

“The roof leaked. The guests decided they didn’t want to risk putting their things outside in case it rains again,” he stares blankly straight ahead, eyes deeply frustrated. “You’re going to have to make another trip to the mainland for something for the holes.”

Harry sighs, and hoists himself up onto the draining board. “Oh shit, is the boat alright?”

“Yeah some guys hauled it up the beach.” It’s a small mercy that it hadn’t been dashed against the rocks. Harry’s tiny boat is the only means they have of regularly reaching the mainland.

“Are the other boats alright? Is Stavros okay?” Stavros is the oldest resident of the island, a tiny man with the whitest, wispiest hair Harry has ever seen. He practically _lives_ on his fishing boat.

Sebastian nods, struggles to pull his feet out of the sink without kicking Harry. “Went ashore before the storm hit. His boat’s a bit damaged, though.”

Harry’s about to launch into a story about his night, about little Ava’s tiny fingers, when someone who definitely isn’t one of their guests walks into the kitchen.

His hair is slicked down with water, sticking to his forehead and poking out in about fifty different directions. He’s small, very small, and he’s wearing … He’s wearing Harry’s sweatpants.

His favourite sweatpants, age worn and soft from too many trips through the wash, and a threadbare t-shirt that Harry thought he’d lost. He can’t complain about it though, not with the way this stranger looks so soft and warm. He wants to paint him, imagines him seated on a rock overlooking the Aegean, holds the way the brilliance of the water would offset the colour of his eyes, ever so slightly darker than the sea.

Blinking the image away, he turns to Sebastian. "You're giving my things away to strangers?"

"Hey!" the man replies, indignant. "This stranger is a shipwreck survivor!"

Harry looks to Sebastian, who rolls his eyes. "He's not. We got them ashore before their boat could wreck."

The man crosses his arms across his chest, Harry's shirt slipping down to reveal the sharp cut of his collarbones. "Our boat is pretty well buggered is you ask me, mate."

"Wait, _their_ boat?" Harry questions. "There's more than one of him?"

"'Course there’s not just me. There's Liam and Niall too. And Josh. _I'm_ the only me."

Sebastian sighs and tugs at the sheet hanging from the ceiling. "There's more than one of

him, yeah. Fishermen.”

Well at least that explains the waders in the living room.

Harry picks at some of the mud crusted onto his poncho and questions Sebastian further about the leaky ceiling.

If it’s too big to leave until the boat from the mainland comes in six days with supplies he’ll have to make a special trip.

The stranger clears his throat after a few minutes. Harry doesn’t know how he’d forgotten that they had company, as attractive as the company is. “I was promised Greek hospitality.”

An apology is sitting right behind Harry’s teeth but before he can say anything Donna comes wandering in. “You’ve come to the wrong island, then.” She gives Sebastian a quick kiss on the cheek.

The stranger rolls his eyes, and Harry holds out his hand to ease the silence. They’re meant to at least be _polite_ to guests, even if they don’t have reliable hot water.

“Sorry, I’m Harry. I live here.” He’s had three years of Elena’s disappointed glances not to bother introducing himself as the maintenance man anymore.

“Louis.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Louis.” Harry is suddenly all too aware of the mud crusted under his fingernails and wrapping around his wrist. The man, Louis, takes it anyway, hand warm and clean and _small_. Harry feels his insides burble. _Oh dear_.

Instead of dwelling on it, Harry inquires about Louis’ not-ship-wrecked boat. He tries to ignore the fact that talking to Louis - this very pretty, very clean man dressed head to toe in Harry’s clothes - feels decidedly wrong whilst he can feel dried mud between his shoulder blades.

At some point, Sebastian and Donna leave the kitchen to presumably investigate the leaky ceiling. Harry doesn’t even notice.

 (x)

 

All Louis can think is that Liam should have listened to him. Louis had warned him about the storm clouds, and he hadn’t listened. He’d kept on with that bloody _ridiculous_ idea of having to get back home to his bloody girlfriend. They’ve been out at sea for months by now, surely a few extra days wouldn’t hurt.

Louis had said as much, Niall and Josh had backed him up even. There were supposed to be rules onboard - they voted on _everything_ \- but apparently Liam was using his _fucking_ power of veto. Veto was for emergencies. It was basically there _for_ a storm, when there wasn’t enough time to vote.

There had been enough time to vote. If Louis had had enough time to jump overboard, and threaten to swim back to England, there had been enough time for a revote. And then to revote on the revote if they’d wanted to. Not that the result would have changed. It was three against four and Liam had _let them sail into a storm! At night!_

Louis’s always been told that he can hold a grudge like no one else. He’s also deeply professional and isn’t about to shirk in his duties just because he’s mad at Liam. Wanting to survive might have something to do with it as well, but that’s neither here nor there.

“The rope’s going! Someone get the rope!” Josh has both hands on the wheel and is holding himself in place with one knee braced on the side of the cabin, and an elbow digging hard into the port side of the boat. It’s dark, it’s so _bloody_ dark, and the only working light they’ve got is on top of the mast.

Louis watches the rope for their main sail whizz past Niall, and chases after it, skidding along the saturated decking for a few paces before the tension evens out and he’s standing still with the slippery rope grasped in both hands. “I got it! Got it, got it!”

He can see Niall’s mouth moving, can see the panicked energy he’s holding in his whole body, but the words are carried away with the wind. Louis meets Niall’s eyes. “What?!” He screams, willing the wind to carry his voice, for the rain to soak up his frantic words and drop them on Niall.

“Niall!” He tries again, skidding back up the deck to resecure the rope. “ _What?!_ ” Josh’s entire body is shaking with the strain of holding them in a straight line, concentrating so intensely that even the waves crashing over the stern and into his back don’t seem to be affecting him. Louis wishes he could feel that sort of distance, wishes he could zone out and just do his job - find them a sheltered mooring somewhere, and not worry about dying.

He can’t though, even if his mind would let him. Just because the rope is no longer in danger of whizzing out to sea and carrying their sail with it, doesn’t mean that it’s a good thing. The rope, tethered to a fixed point on the decking, is putting the sail under incredible strain. The wind is too strong, and normally Louis would simply change its positioning, give it some slack and tell Josh to point them down wind.

He can’t do that in this weather. Josh is having a hard enough time keeping them pointing in one direction, and Niall is bent over their tiny outboard engine with Liam. The best Louis can do is keep his eyes fixed on the horizon and pray that the sail doesn’t rip, that they’ve all done some brilliant, selfless thing, and are owed a bucket full good luck.

Louis is hit in the face by a particularly vicious patch of rain, and he’s blinking his eyes clear just as the wind dies down enough for him to make out Niall’s voice.

“T’er….ay ahead!...n moor t’ere..” He’s waving his hands frantically, and Liam looks miserably hopeful. Louis can make out enough of what he’s said to start squinting into the rain, eyes searching for the bay Niall says he’s spotted.

“Fucking oh my god, yes! Josh!” Louis spins around and he could _cry_ he’s so glad. “Josh there’s a bloody bay! Go to port! Niall, you absolute _bad_ man!” He grabs at the ropes, adjusts the sail the tiniest bit to make Josh’s job easier.

The wind starts up again just as they’re entering the bay and Josh’s grunt of protest is mostly lost to the wind. In the open water, unprotected as they are, the waves are terrifying. At least five metres high and attacking their boat from all four sides.

Louis’ heart is in his throat, he feels entirely helpless. The best he can do is make sure the rope holds, and pray.

Praying, it would seem, is overrated. Just as they’re entering the bay, a particularly strong gust of wind hits their starboard side, and Louis is thrown off his feet. At the same time, a loud _bang_ fills him with dread.

The decking feels different under his feet, and when he looks around to check on the rest of the lads, he immediately sees why. Their mast has snapped. Less than a third of it is still connected, wood splintered terribly. The whole thing is listing out the port side, over the side of the boat and into the water.

Without an engine or mast, at night, and in the worst storm they’ve experienced, things are looking pretty hopeless. The wind that’s been steadily pushing them towards the cliffs now has the dead weight of their mast to assist it, and the waves are swamping them - rushing over the starboard side, crashing into the bow, and flooding in from the stern. Sinking is looking like a very real possibility, and swimming to shore doesn’t seem very realistic.

Louis turns around, desperate to find Liam and tell him he loves him really, but the captain is already behind him, eyes big and round and sad. “It’s my fault!” Liam shouts, head ducked close to force the words into Louis’ ear. “It’s my bloody fault!” He’s crying now, though Louis wouldn’t be able to tell if he didn’t know his best mate so well.

The rain does a good job of hiding Liam’s tears, but the red of his eyes and the set of his mouth gives him away. Louis shakes his head. “Nah, mate. ‘s all our bloody faults for not being good enough Christians!”

Niall materialises at Louis’ other side, face comically offended. “We’re in Greece. Don’t think Christianity has anything to do with it.”

“Would you three stop wanging on about God and give me a hand?!” Josh whose face is set, and entire body locked against the movement of the _Persephone_ , still fully focused on keeping the boat away from the cliffs.

Said cliffs are looming very close, but Louis’ hopes are buoyed when a small motorised boat (an oversized dinghy, really) approaches them.

The waves inside the harbour are much smaller than those of the open sea, but Louis still wonders what sort of idiots take a dinghy out in a storm. He’s not about to complain though, not when there’s a pair of hands anchoring themselves to the side of the _Persephone_ , reaching out to pull them all aboard.

After a silent dispute that lasts all of a few seconds, Niall and Josh get in the boat with the two rescuers. Louis hisses in a breath when a particularly sizeable wave breaks against the bow of the tiny craft, and he squeezes Liam’s hand, hardly daring to watch in case the dramatically overloaded boat doesn’t make it to shore.

It does, and then it’s turning straight back around. It’s all such a cliche - pitch black, storm roiling all around them, a sinking ship, and two strangers wearing matching yellow raincoats. Adding to the cliche of it all is Liam, who first makes their rescuers wait until he’s moored the boat to a buoy that they’ve been washed closer to, and then refuses to get off the _Persephone_ until Louis does.

“I’m the captain. I have to stay with the boat.”

Louis almost chokes on a wave of sea water when he goes to answer. “You have a girlfriend at home. This isn’t the _Titanic._ It’s fucking moored you idiot. Now get your sorry arse in this damn dinghy before it sinks.”

The rescuers appear to be choking back smiles, and when Liam _does_ finally disembark the _Persephone_ they rev the little engine and Louis barely has time to worry about being swamped by waves before he’s being hauled out of the dinghy and onto a jetty.

Josh and Niall are hunched over, identical yellow coats drawn tight across their shoulders, in the middle of the wooden jetty. Louis really wishes someone would give him a coat. Now that the danger is over he really is rather cold. And tired. “I don’t suppose you have any hot water on this island?”

The rescuers laugh, and someone hands him a coat. Louis burrows into it and follows the soggy little group ashore. He really hopes wherever they’re going has good water pressure.

 ---

 

When he’s not fully concentrated on not dying, Louis notices that their rescuers are _fit_. After nine weeks aboard a fishing boat with only Liam, Niall, and Josh for company, Louis can’t be faulted for comparing them to Greek gods.

They lead them _upupup_ this bloody great hill, through a white clay archway, and up an even bigger fucking hill. The man and woman in front of Louis have such good cheekbones Louis almost makes a joke about filleting fish on them; the third man is bringing up the rear, immersed in conversation with Niall.

Louis feels a bit like a prisoner, what with the escort and all. What are they going to do? Make a run for it? His foot catches on a stone and with the sopping wet ground, he only just manages to stop himself falling flat on his face. Maybe they’re there to catch them if they fall.

Louis is almost too focused on not falling down the bloody hill (it’s a _Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a mountain sort of a hill_ , really) that he misses the building ahead of their sorry procession. Almost.

The uneven, sea foam white walls aren’t hard to miss, even in the dead of night in the middle of a storm. They’re the same colour as the archway they’d passed through ten minutes ago. Louis wonders why anyone in their right mind would buy land that comes with a mountain pass instead of a driveway.

Then again, he doesn’t rightfully know where they are, so maybe this island is full of Olympians. Not the sporting kind. Judging solely from the appearance of his rescuers, the probability of being surrounded by actual Greek gods isn’t looking as preposterous as it had that morning.

It’s also fully likely that Louis is slightly traumatised from his near-death experience not even half an hour ago.

They slow down when they reach a sort of patio area (more a courtyard, by Louis’ standards) but Louis barely has time to catch his breath before they’re hurried inside. Louis immediately decides that this is the cosiest place he’s seen in an entire year, and the rescuers introduce themselves as Donna, Sebastian, and Nikkos.

Their Greek accent are thick, but Louis’s comforted by the foreign sounds. He struggles out of his wet clothes and cumbersome waders, and watches as the others do the same. Liam hands Louis a towel, and he’s confused for a moment until he realises that Donna had handed Liam a pile of them, all looking fresh and clean and _warm_. Louis’s stripped down to his boxer shorts and all he wants to do is take them off. They’re in polite company though, so he refrains.

“You’ll be wanting to see your rooms?” Nikkos asks, English less polished than Sebastian’s.

“We have rooms?” Josh asks, toweling his hair off. “We wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Exactly!” Niall agrees. “We can just camp out here. On the floor.”

Louis nods, taking another towel to wrap around his head, already having one around his waist. “You’ve already saved us. Don’t have to give up your beds as well.”

The men laugh, teeth white against the dark room. “Oh, we won’t be giving up our beds. This is a villa. There are plenty spare.”

 ---

 

Louis is glad Sebastian and Nikkos insisted they take a proper room, and not the tiled floor of the living room. He’s the last one to get a room, watching Liam, Josh, and Niall fall into king singles still wearing their wet pants and socks. The wait makes opening the wooden door - painted white, like everything else in the villa that isn’t blue - and finding a _queen sized bed_ even sweeter. He gives Sebastian a hearty clap on the shoulder in thanks, and bids Nikkos a very enthusiastic goodnight.

His crewmates have king singles _(_ which, admittedly, seem like four-posters in comparison to the narrow berths they’ve been sleeping in for the past nine weeks. Louis couldn’t even have a wank without knocking his elbow against the side of the boat) and here he is with a mattress with more than enough room for another two people. It’s wonderful. He almost asks Nikkos back for a cuddle.

And the sheets. Don’t get Louis started on the sheets. He’d stripped off his briefs before climbing in - not wanting to sleep in damp linen - and he’s so glad he did. They’re white, like everything else on this island, it feels like, but it’s more of a creamy white. Like hotel sheets. The thread count certainly feels high enough to belong in a hotel.

Louis has always loved the smell of new sheets - washing powder mixed with sun. These sheets smell like something else has been added to that mix though, almost as if there’s the smell of whoever last slept on them embedded in the fibres.

Normally that would disgust Louis. But these are clearly clean, whatever he’s smelling is good. Clean and wholesome and almost citrusy. He presses his face into the pillow which smells exactly like the sheets and drifts off to sleep, body feeling like it’s still at sea, not yet used to being stationary on solid ground.

 ---

 

Morning comes much more calmly than it does on board the _Persephone_. There, it was all frantic calls to breakfast before the weather changed; it was never having enough warm water for showers because their black water bag had been sitting in the shade.

In the villa - Louis realises he doesn’t even know what the island’s called - morning has sunlight filtering through the curtains - red and orange and yellow abstract shapes against (surprise, surprise!) a white background. It’s the soft shuffle of feet down the hallway, down below in the kitchen, and the muffled voices outside.

Louis lets himself lie under the covers, with the soft blue and red spotted duvet tucked under his chin for a few quietly lazy minutes, until it gets too stuffy and he realises that the reason he’d woken up wasn’t because of the sounds of life throughout the villa, but because it’s awfully hot in the little room. The shutters are still firmly closed from the storm, and there is no air circulation whatsoever.

Louis makes the executive decision to get out of bed, and bypasses the moral dilemma of ‘do-I-wear-the-clothes-in-the-wardrobe?’ by assuming that any clothes in a guest room are for the guest to use as they wish. After hunting down the shower and scrubbing as much sea water off himself as he can, he finds a pair of sweatpants at the very bottom of one of the drawers, the material soft, and the grey almost white from how much they’ve been worn.

It’s a bit weird to use the underwear he found in one of the drawers, so Louis slips them on without, figuring he can put his briefs on once they’ve dried out. He then shrugs into the first t-shirt he lays his hands on - big and white, still new feeling.

Fully clothed and still feeling a bit lost without the constant rock of the _Persephone_ underfoot, he does a quick tidy up of the bed - more throwing the covers into something vaguely flat than actually making it, and opens the shutters. He doesn’t even put much force into it, just pushes them out and through the window frame, but one comes off its hinges and plummets two stories to the street below.

“Shit,” Louis scrambles after it, white knuckling the window sill and leaning forwards as far as he can, almost his entire upper body hanging out of the window. “Shit shit shit shit,” Louis mutters to himself, taking one last look at the lonely blue panel lying against the grey cobblestone. “Shit.”

He decides the best point of action - besides jumping out the window and pretending it never happened - is to find either Sebastian or Nikkos, someone who knows who he is and won’t be too angry that a strange English bloke is breaking their villa. With a deep breath, he pads downstairs, barefoot and only vaguely nervous.

 ---

 

As it turns out, there was no need to be nervous at all because the rest of the villa is the most bizarre thing Louis has ever seen. The hallway and staircases are fine, normal even - there’s the same creamy white walls as there had been the night before, paintings of landscapes and abstract ideas and people brightening up the place. But the living room with its terracotta flooring and mismatched wooden and wicker furniture has been turned into the wash house of a fairy tale grandmother.

Sheets that share no similarity whatsoever with the ones Louis slept in obscure most of the room from the waist up - wall to wall sheaths of gaudy linen, interspersed with the clothing from about three different families. Despite how strange it is, Louis pushes through the half dry maze of sheets, and locates the entrance to what turns out to be the kitchen.

The first thing he notices is that the dining table is covered in laundry as well, this time mainly tea towels and an assortment of trousers. It’s huge - a well-loved wooden slab, long enough for maybe eight people along each side. Sebastian is standing between the table and the bench, arms folded across his big chest. The most striking thing about the room is the man sitting on the draining board directly behind Sebastian, knees bent close to his chest and his feet in the sink.

Louis doesn’t know what to make of him. He’s too big to be sitting in the sink for starters, ridiculously long legs obvious even in the sweatpants he’s wearing. On top of the height thing, he’s very broad, big shoulders and big hands and a big, expressive face. Louis is formulating a theory that all Greek men are giants, and it’s shaping up to support his other theory - that everyone on this island are Olympians - quite nicely.

Then he speaks, "you're giving my things away to strangers?" and Louis has two thoughts. One: that he’s not Greek, he’s English, and two: that it is a very strange comment to make about a guest using the provided facilities.

Louis responds with the usual snark he affords strangers who call him a stranger. The man in the sink seems unconcerned, picking at a layer of mud that’s dried over what Louis _thinks_ is a plastic poncho. It should be disgusting that he’s picking dried mud into a sink in a place that clearly caters to paying guests, but it’s more endearing than anything else. Louis ignores whatever Sebastian says in favor of more closely observing the huge man in the sink.

He only realises he’s probably not _actually_ called The Man In The Sink, when he introduces himself as Harry. The hand Harry holds out comes bearing only slightly less mud than his poncho, neat nails rimmed with brown and his finely boned wrists ringed with dry soil. Louis doesn’t hesitate to take it, and the way his hand is enveloped shocks him. He doesn’t remember what they talk about, doesn’t remember the reason he came downstairs until the kitchen is empty save for him and Harry.

“I did actually come down here for a reason,” Louis cuts Harry off before he can start them on a different conversation. “I think I broke your shutters.”

Harry’s head is nodding, and he looks calm as anything. “Oh yeah. That happens. Don’t worry about it. Show me where it is and I’ll fix it?”

It’s all incredibly suspicious - who reacts so calmly to a guest telling them they’ve _broken their house_? Louis says as much and Harry laughs. “It’s falling about around our ears. Did Seb not tell you about the toilet?”

 _The toilet?_ “No. What’s wrong with the toilet?”

“It just-- Doesn’t like to flush. And the seat kind of… falls off. Sometimes. Not-- not very often,” Harry looks incredibly earnest, gesticulating with big, tanned hands. “I keep… we’ll get it fixed eventually.”

Louis’s not sure how to respond, so he just flaps his hands in the direction he remembers as being the outside door, and waits for Harry to follow him. It takes some wandering around the outside of the villa before Louis locates the shutter, and when he turns to assess Harry’s reaction the other man is smirking.

“That’s my shutter.”

“Yeah,” Louis huffs in frustration, “yeah, I know. I told you. You said it wa--"

Harry interrupts him, “no, it’s _my_ shutter. That’s my room.” Louis checks, just to make sure, but Harry is definitely pointing at the room Louis slept in last night. _God._ The _bed_ Louis slept in last night.

“Well, Sebastian and Nikkos showed me there. They didn’t say it was anyone’s room.”

Harry’s mouth quirks at him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. They’re always giving my stuff to strangers.”

 ---

 

Louis never would have imagined that fixing a shutter would be such a colossal effort, but then again, what does he know about fixing things? The best he can do is knot a fishing net back together in a shoddy ‘ _until we get something better_ ’ attempt. Really, all it takes is a few screws and a fair bit of tapping with the end of a hammer until it’s sitting right, but Harry has to find the screwdriver first.

Louis feels a bit shit just leaving Harry to do all the work himself, so he picks up the shutter and follows the man around what feels like the whole island. Along the way, an exasperated young woman rattles off very fast Greek and Louis tags along while Harry fixes first a clothesline, then a pantry shelf, and finally takes a cursory look at a cracked stone step. The lost screwdriver appears down under a wooden seat in the villa’s courtyard, and Harry’s bursting with apologies for trailing Louis all around the place.

It gets a bit awkward when they get to Harry’s room, and Louis has to stand at the end of the bed and pretend he hadn’t buried his nose in the sheets the night before, but if Harry has any thoughts on the matter he doesn’t voice them. After the shutter is back in its rightful place, Harry rubs his hands off on the thighs of sweatpants that look like newer versions of the ones Louis is parading around in, and declares it lunchtime.

 ---

 

Lunchtime in the villa is mental.

Fully, properly mental. The type of crazy that nine weeks on a boat in the middle of the ocean with no escape from seagulls can’t prepare someone for, and there’s an even bigger table outside than in. Most of the twenty-ish guests at the villa are Americans, the obnoxious sort who expect everything to be exactly the same as it is back home and scowl at the locals, but there’s one French couple, and a hen party from New Zealand.

He learns, from some very on-the-side earwigging and inference, that the washing that had been all over the bottom floor of the villa that morning was because the roof was leaky, and Harry and Sebastian hadn’t had a chance to fix it before the storm had hit. Apparently the Americans had convinced the rest of the guests that they should dry everything inside in case it rained again.

When one of the most outspoken middle aged women starts complaining very vocally about the _terrible wind noise last night, have you ever thought of getting that fixed_ , Louis turns to Liam and rolls his eyes very pointedly. Liam, though, is halfway through a conversation with one of the women from New Zealand so Louis looks to his other side and makes ridiculous faces with Niall every time the Americans say something particularly bigoted. Which is often.

“Do you know how much damage there is or…?” Liam’s worried question draws Louis’ attention away from the shambles that is a conversation between two of the Americans and Nikkos.

“Your mast broke the sail, and there are some holes in the... The k-- is it the keel?”

“The keel, yeah.”

Seb nods. “Holes in the keel, and I’m afraid that um, well after you got it moored, another boat… well. There’s a pretty bloody big hole in the side of yours. Sorry.”

Liam slumps down in his seat, and the young woman he’d been talking to pats comfortingly at his shoulder. Louis grips his knee tightly, and Niall leans across Louis to press a kiss to Liam’s cheek. Josh nudges Louis’ feet under the table, and Louis passes the sentiment along to their captain. It isn’t Josh’s fault his reach isn’t long enough to reach Liam directly.

One of the middle aged men from the unfair-representation-of-the-Free-Land-brigade speaks up, loud enough to be taken as him addressing the entire gathering. “Hey, look on the bright side. Least you didn’t get leaked on last night!”

Louis is still awaiting confirmation about the existence of Olympians on this island, but now would be a really opportune time for Zeus to communicate via well-placed thunderbolt.

 ---

 

The walk to the harbour is just as long as Louis remembers it. And, sadly, the _Persephone_ is in the exact condition Sebastian had described over lunch. Except not really. Because, call him naive, but Louis hadn’t pictured the hole in her starboard flank to be quite as… well, ragged. In his head he’s comparing it to every flesh wound he’s seen on the telly, wood splintered inwards, metaphorical flesh torn and hanging off the bone. It’s wide, long and expansive and looking for all the world like they’ve survived canon fire.

Her mast rather completes the grim picture, wooden beam torn and hanging on by a few last tendons, while the sail floats listlessly in the water, rising and falling like the sign of surrender that failed to save them. The mood on the beach is sombre, and Louis can’t imagine half of what Liam is feeling.

News outlets don’t portray it to be as sad as it is. Stories about F1 drivers who have totalled their cars, rally drivers and America’s Cup teams, all get the socially required _‘that’s awful, mate’_ but nothing more. None of it gets across the desolation of it.

For all that a boat is just some wood and metal, a crew can’t help but become attached to their vessel, and the _Persephone_ was a bloody good wee fishing boat. She wasn’t even designed for it, took to having nets hauled in and out over her sides like a champ and never once showed any signs of distress.

Liam, always always looking for the silver lining, doesn’t even tear his eyes away from his boat when he asks how long it will take for supplies to arrive at the island. He doesn’t respond with anything less than a resigned, polite nod when Nikkos tells him the next boat is six days away.

Louis responds for him. “Bugger.”

Niall claps him on the shoulder, arms sprawled across him and Liam. “My sentiments exactly.”

 (x)

 

When Harry volunteered to take Louis over to the mainland on a scouting expedition for supplies for the rebuild, he hadn’t expected him to be such a bad passenger. The dinghy, while plenty big enough for two, is still on the downhill side of small, and Louis keeps wriggling around.

Harry brings it up when they’re a third of the way to the mainland, voice anxiously gentle because they’re still practically strangers, and Louis apologises, saying he’s used to keeping active while he’s at sea. Used to keeping look out, and used to moving around to keep the seasickness at bay.

Bringing it up doesn’t stop Louis moving though, and having an explanation doesn’t make the trip less precarious, but Harry doesn’t mention it again. He also doesn’t say that moving about seems counterintuitive in a battle against nausea.Instead he tries to make polite conversation, and when that fails, he trains his eyes on the horizon and keeps a steady hand on the tiller.

The harbour of Skiathos is a step far to the left of Harry’s comfort zone, especially when he arrives in the middle of the day. It’s why he plans his trips to the mainland around the setting of the sun - far fewer boats coming and going, far fewer moving obstacles to avoid. In the evening there are still just as many boats, but they’re mostly all moored up, safely away from Harry and his dinghy. In an ocean harbour, a one man, barely motorised dinghy is to fishing boats and yachts what reclined bicycles are to angry mid-morning motorists. He’s a hazard, one no one cares to check for.

Thankfully - Harry grips the wood of the tiller a little tighter, mother’s superstitions bred firmly into him - Wednesday afternoon is not peak traffic hour, so he’s fairly sure they’ll avoid being t-boned by a speed boat.

On _land_ however, it is always peak traffic hour - rain, shine, daylight or twilight, Christmas Day or Easter Friday, there are always taxis taking illegal turns, pedestrians chatting in the middle of busy streets, and motorbikes detouring through the middle of markets. Harry has to haul Louis away by the waistband of his sweatpants to keep him being run down by a man on a Triumph.

Louis pats his shoulder in thanks and brushes himself off. “Did he have _eyes_ tattooed on his knees?”

“Mmn.”

“ _Sick_.” Louis’ face lights up and he glances about himself. “Are we in the fruit and veg section?” Again, another nod from Harry. “Why? I’ve a leaky boat and you’ve a leaky ceiling, and yet we’re both here buying…”

“Nectarines. Yeah. And grapes,” Harry hands over a fistful of money and hands the bag to Louis. “Elena’s orders. And Donna’s. The Americans wanted pomegranates, but I think Seb told ‘em they’re out of season.”

Louis snorts a laugh and immediately wishes he didn’t, because he’s dressed in sweatpants and a shirt that’s too big for him, his hair is a mess, and he’s been bumped into by at least seven people and a stampede of elephants. He can’t be too off putting however, because Harry takes a fistful of the shirt Louis is wearing and pulls him closer against his side.

“Mainlanders are a bit mad. Sorry.” Or maybe Harry is just humouring him, letting him twist around and play look out in a tiny bloody dinghy like he wasn’t two degrees away from drowning them both.

Rather than dwelling on the fact that Louis hates small water craft, he pesters Harry until he leads him to a side of the market that has significantly less grapes and olives, and significantly more name brand breakfast cereals. Louis lucks out on locating any boxes of Yorkshire tea, but Harry does use his Greek to find him a brew of loose leaf English Breakfast. Or near enough. The home-beast inside Louis is appeased for the time being.

The other market, or the end of it that sells non-edibles, is slightly less busy but it’s still pretty manic. Louis is aware that he may be hyperbolising because he’s been living at sea with no one but a crew of three men and some seagulls for company, but Harry seems at least a little bit frazzled as well. The same guy with the eye tattoos is running his hands over a length of wood that Louis is eyeing up for the boat repairs, but Harry steers him past him and on to another store.

“Much better value for money.” By which he means, _‘much easier to haggle with.’_ Louis hadn’t expected Harry to be very good at haggling, face too sweet and unassuming, manner altogether too respectful, but heck. Harry can haggle with the best of them. And Louis is the one who scored two brand new fishing nets for a bucket of cod a few weeks ago.

“Have you tried a grape before?”

“You what?” Louis looks at Harry like he’s mad. They’ve both abandoned their shopping trip - supplies for their repairs ordered and to be delivered on Monday, bags of fruit, cereal, and tea supplemented by hand cream, razors, socks, and a bra from the list they’d been supplied them with.

Harry nudges their knees together, resettles himself on top of the picnic table they’d decided to stop at. “Grapes. Proper grapes, though. Not the ones you get in bags from Tesco.” Louis is tempted to ask what’s wrong with Tesco grapes, but Harry’s stretching over him to grab the shopping bag with the fruit in. “Try,” he plucks a grape out of the bag, “one,” he starts to bloody _peel_ it, and Louis thinks he’s gone onto a strange island with a madman, “of these!”

Harry looks so happy with himself, so thrilled at having peeled a _grape_ , that Louis humours him. It feels odd between his fingers, like a slimy and entirely unnatural stone, but he pops it into his mouth and bites down.

It’s… it’s proof enough of Mount Olympus because it is unlike any grape Louis has ever tried before. “Tesco have really been doing it wrong,” he mutters, and Harry throws his chin up in a cackle, hand coming up to cover the sound but eyes betraying his smile.

“And you thought _I_ was mad.” He’s smug, and Louis tries very hard not to like that on him. Smugness is not an attractive attribute.

“You _did_ peel a grape, mate.”

“And you still ate it, so ha!” _Ha_ , like it’s a thing people actually say outside of the playground in year six. “Joke’s on you. The skin’s really tough anyway.”

Louis closes his eyes, just for the sake of it, just to feel the sun on his face, just to imagine what it would actually be like if he had somehow stumbled upon the Olympians; if Dionysus were to suddenly appear and offer Louis a _mountain_ of grapes, if Poseidon walked Louis back to the island so he doesn’t have to set foot in the dinghy ever again. Which reminds Louis that he still doesn’t know where he is.

“‘S called Kalokairi,” Harry tells him with a smile. “Means summer. In Greek.”

 (x)

 

Harry had met Dominic in Germany, of all places. They’d both been travelling - Harry away from home, Dominic towards it. Dominic had had a winsome smile and smooth hands, and Harry had followed him from a backpackers in Hamburg to a hostel in Paris. They’d fallen from friends to lovers as easy as breathing.

Dominic had laughed at a joke of Harry’s, taken his hand, pulled him out of the cafe Harry can’t remember the name of, and to the banks of the Seine. Paris that day was rainy - dull, grey, and cold - but Harry had hunched his shoulders and laughed into Dominic’s coat, had let himself be tugged along and along and along, all the way to Greece.

From Athens and following wide shoulders and black hair up the steps of the Parthenon, it didn’t seem like a huge step to fall giggling into the white dinghy Dominic had led Harry to. It didn’t seem like moving too fast when Harry shook the hand of Dominic’s aunt, or draped himself along Dominic’s back while he had blown up an airbed for them to share. It had been a Monet - colourful and full of life, captivating and exciting, and it had felt like all the fairytales said it would.

Sometimes, Harry would wake to Dominic kissing patterns into the back of his neck, the stuffiness of a morning behind shutters and bricks not affecting them. Most mornings though, Harry would wake up, and Dominic would still be asleep. He’d get out his paints - even though Dominic scolded him for dirtying the sheets - and he’d mix browns with peaches and trace the strength of Dominic’s neck onto white scraps of paper.

Harry used to call Dominic his boyfriend, but in hindsight he should have called himself stupid. Blind. Naive.

Because in Paris, Harry had listened attentively to Dominic talk about politics and philosophy, and when Harry had mentioned his art - ink and water colours and harsh pencil lines, Dominic had turned to the waiter and shook his head in a way that might have seemed fond if not for the underlying impatience, for the quieting hand against Harry’s elbow.

 ---

 

At the back of the villa is a bar. It’s backed up against the boundary wall of the villa - tall, blocks of grey stone. There’s a larger courtyard out back than there is out the front, this one made for dancing rather than lunchtimes. The first night Dominic took Harry to the bar, there was a wedding - lots of music and lots of people and, best of all, lots of light.

Instead of drinking like Dominic had expected him to, Harry had excused himself from the thrum of the party and found a small table. He’d uncapped the pen he carried in the back pocket of his jeans and drawn across the planks of the table - swirling vines, and starbursts. He’d put his happiness on that table and he doesn’t think Dominic even noticed what he was doing.

After Dominic left, Harry got Elena’s permission to draw on all the tables in the back courtyard.

He’s sitting at the bar, painting in the green of a bunch of grapes when Louis and Niall appear beside him. Harry has never been good at getting snuck up on, and even if they didn’t mean to frighten him he still jumps in his seat and smudges a line of green across the wooden surface of the bar.

“Oopsie, sorry mate!” Niall giggles into Louis’ shoulder and Harry glances at the sun. It’s about two in the afternoon and Harry wonders how the blond is already drunk. Louis answers for him.

“Nikkos took us to see some people. Thalia and Rhea?” Thalia and Rhea are girlfriends who have lived on the island their whole lives, and who imbibe any guests they can get their hands on with wine. It doesn’t surprise him that Niall’s a bit tipsy. “Starting early?”

Harry’s confused until Louis nods at the bar. “Oh-- _oh_ , no. I’m just-- um…” he flaps his hands at the paints lying against the counter. He’s expecting an eye roll, for Louis to turn to Niall and share an exasperated sigh. Instead he clambers up onto the stool beside him and peers over Harry’s shoulder.

“What is it?”

Harry doesn’t let himself look at Louis’ profile for too long, uncharacteristically shy. “It’s like-- um, grapes. Supposed to be about Dionysus? The god?” Louis whistles through his teeth, and Harry fidgets on his stool. “‘s not much. It just looks nice.”

“It’s well cool. Gives it character,” Louis nudges Harry’s shoulder. “I studied Classical Lit at uni, me.”

It takes Harry by surprise, knowing that someone might actually be able to appreciate his work, someone who doesn’t live on the island. It also adds an extra degree of pressure. With most guests all Harry has to do is make it look pretty, but now there’s an extra obligation to make it accurate. If Louis thinks it looks cool, though…

“Quirky,” Niall puts in, and Louis flicks his cheek. “Smart arse.”

“Have another drink, Neil.”

Niall actually perks up even more at that, if possible. Harry sets his brush down, and climbs off the seat. “I can get you both one if you like?” Louis looks cautious, so Harry continues, “I mean, I’m not a bartender but I can pour a beer. If you wanted a proper drink, I could call Jack though?”

Niall’s shaking his head, and Louis smiles. “Beer is good. D’you have Guinness?”

Niall’s soft giggles grow into raucous laughter, and Harry grins to himself as he pours three beers. It’s half past two in the afternoon, two days after the anniversary of the day Dominic left him, and he feels okay enough to laugh with a pretty boy running his fingers through the paint Harry had on the lid of an ice cream container.

 ---

 

Louis spent the better part of half an hour just sat on a bar stool watching Harry paint. Niall left when his pint ran out, and Louis had just sort of... stayed. Harry had been asking about what Louis needed to buy for the boat repairs. It would have been rude to leave. And then they’d just kept talking.

“Have you been around the island?”

“Is there anywhere t’ even _go_?” Louis is smirking and dragging his finger around the rim of his glass when Harry’s head snaps to look at him.

“You’re joking me. No one’s shown you ‘round?” He looks so shocked that Louis reaches across to dip his finger into the paint in front of Harry, just to see if the shock has frozen him entirely. “Stop.” Harry’s big hand reaches out to slap at his wrist.

“Se-ttle. Mardy boy.”

“Sorry. Just… you know. Don’t. You’ve never seen the whole island?”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s too fucking hot to go exploring.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m taking you around the island tomorrow. And we can just like... Explore.”

 ---

 

Harry hadn’t expected Louis to show up early, had been prepared to have lunch on the road, maybe even before they left. He knows he’s the only person in the villa who gets up with the sun, but he knows he’s not being ridiculous when the clock on the wall says it’s ten past one, and Louis is still nowhere to be seen.

“Alright?” Donna plops down on the love seat next to him, and Harry tips sideways to rest on her shoulder. He can hear the walking market going by underneath his window - locals selling fruit, crafts, and clothes. It’s Sebastian’s turn to wait outside the villa for the market to make its way passed and he had been complaining about it for the past week, saying he shouldn’t have to since he’s got a wedding on the way.

“Do you think we’ll be able to see Ava soon?” He dodges the question, but what would he say? He’s only peeved off because he hates when people don’t follow through on plans, and it’s a silly thing to be in a foul mood over.

Donna pats at the top of Harry’s knee, “‘course!” She picks up Harry’s legs and resettles them in her lap so they’re twisted into a sort of sideways cuddle. “You’re the one that got her here.”

“I mean, not really. I just fixed the lights. Didn’t do much.”

“Not true! Christos told me they’re all thanking you!” Nikkos’ head pokes through the doorway.

“Using your insider knowledge to gang up on me!” Harry brushes him off and Nikkos rolls his eyes.

“Please. If you think they actually tell _me_ anything…”

Donna laughs and gives Harry’s thigh a solid thump. “Right. I’d best be off. Me and Seb have dance lessons.” She sighs, but the swing of her hips give away the fact she’s actually buzzing for a few hours of ballroom lessons down on the beach. In midday sun. On the even hotter sand.

Harry doesn’t envy her any of it. Except maybe the white wedding.

“Couldn’t do that,” Nikkos is still standing in the door to the room, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “One wedding per island is enough.”

Harry grins up at him. “You’re a lone wolf, huh?” Nikkos throws his head back and howls at the ceiling.

“Not in _side_ , Nikkos!”

“Harry’s going to be a godfather, Elena!” Nikkos is wearing a shit eating grin.

“Oh well _that_ moved quickly. First I’m getting thanked and now I’m a god dad!”Harry grins at Nikkos and sighs good-naturedly when Elena replies, “Well then, he can pull his weight. Come help the god _mother_ with the dinner.”

 ---

 

Niall and Louis tumble into the courtyard first, followed by a very dejected Liam, and then Donna and Sebastian - arms wrapped around each other’s waists, looking sweaty and exhausted, but glowing.

Harry is coming to learn that Niall is either perpetually happy, drunk, or looks vaguely pissed off. Now, his cheeks are ruddy with a mix of the late afternoon heat, and a definite tinge of annoyance. Louis’ jaw is set in a strong line, and even though he’s jostling Niall for a seat at the table, his body holds onto an angry sort of tension.

Liam sinks into the last available seat - sandwiched between two of the New Zealand girls - and quirks the left half of his mouth into a sad smile when one of them asks what’s wrong. “Boat didn’t have our supplies.”

Harry snaps to attention. The boat from the mainland _always_ brings the orders, always. Kalokairi is so cut-off that it relies heavily on the weekly arrival of goods and tourists the boat carries. Elena tuts under her breath and elbows Nikkos.

“Don’t blame me!” he cries, looking around the table for back up. Sebastian just smirks at him.

“Your cousin works on the boat, Nikkos.”

“And? Half this island is my cousin, doesn’t mean I get perks.”

He does get perks, a lot of perks, but Donna brings it up so Harry doesn’t have to. The conversation digresses into an argument about whether people are soft to Nikkos because he’s related to everyone, or because he’s a nice person, and then to when the hen party is going to be.

It’s for the girls from New Zealand, not Donna. Seb’s having a stag night either, they had just wanted a quiet night out on the mainland with family and friends a few days before the wedding. The big party will be the wedding reception.

After some gentle prodding, Nikkos manages to get the bride-to-be to confess that there will definitely be a party within the fortnight, but that she hasn’t decided on a date yet. Everyone’s invited of course - the party’s at the villa, it would be rude - and Harry notices Louis’ face light up.

“No shindigs at sea, then?” He asks as an aside, splitting away from the conversation. Josh and Niall nudge each other and snort, while Louis just shakes his head - rueful expression painted over his sun-warmed cheeks.

“Only if we wanted t’ end up _in_ the sea,” Louis shakes his head and Harry thinks that the brown of Louis’ cheeks is half a shade away from a sunburn. He’s got lines beside his eyes that befit a seasoned sailor, but a lightness to his body that suggest he hasn’t worked a boat long. “Just stuck to brandy and port, didn’t we lads?”

Niall and Josh groan their agreement. “Bloody hate the stuff.”

“But it’s a drink, am I right lads?”

Liam takes that as his cue to join the conversation, eyes smiling even though his face is still trying to figure out the motions. “Shut up! The _Persephone_ ’s never had anything ‘cept beer.”

Harry grins to himself, lets himself bask in the easy camaraderie of these four men. “How’d she get the name? _Persephone_. Like… it’s not a very happy story, is it?” He thinks it’s a valid question, but Louis huffs out a weary sigh before he answers. Harry only takes a few moments to be offended though, as it soon becomes clear that Louis’ sigh was directed at Liam.

“This bleedin’ idiot thought he were clever. Named the boat after the wife of Hades coz ‘e only takes her out in spring and summer. Parts of autumn too, but he likes to forget that, dontcha Leemo?” Louis’ voice is sickeningly fond, and Harry looks away from him to check Liam’s reaction. He’s sitting across the table, big smile on his face - big enough to match the blush spreading over his cheeks.

“‘S a good name.”

Louis grins at him. “You’re telling that to the man wit’ a degree in myths, mate. It’s a fooking good name, I know. Wish I’d thought of it meself.”

Niall’s raucous laugh distracts Harry from the way Louis’ eyes crinkle even more when he grins, stops him from thinking about how the sun looks filtering through Louis’ hair, and how he’d paint him - silhouetted by both ocean and trees, land and water, two realms because Louis looks otherworldly, sitting and laughing around the dinner table.

Harry’s thankful for the distraction, moves on to talking with Sebastian about their plans for a new toilet block and ignores the looks the man gives him. Harry can look after himself.

 ---

 

“Thought you’d be concentrating on fixing the toilet you’ve already got, not building new ones.”

Harry just about jumps out of his skin, whirls around from where he’d been adding gold to a depiction of Apollo raising the sun on the wall of the goat house.

He and Nikkos had moved out of it months ago, taking up Elena’s offer of separate rooms, and it had become somewhat of a group project. Nikkos had designs for it to be a bar, Sebastian had proposed a bathroom block, and they’d all compromised on a restaurant. It made sense. To give people the option of eating out at the villa, and not making the trek down to the waterfront for a night out.

“Pardon?”

“The toilet. The one that doesn’t flush.” Louis’ arms are crossed in front of him, bringing his shoulders forward and pushing his hip outwards.

Harry nods quickly. “We are. But we do need more than one serviceable toilet. Guests and that.”

“ _Semi_ -serviceable.”

Harry only hesitates briefly before laughing. He’s not used to strangers, not ones who say more than a few words back. The brush in his hand feels heavy all of a sudden and he doesn’t know what to do with it, arms hanging awkwardly out in front of him. He swirls more paint onto the brush and turns around. If Louis wants to stay, he can. The goat house isn’t off-limits.

“What you working on?” Louis rustles the straw with his footfalls, and Harry puts the reason his hands are shaking down to the fact that he’s had a few drinks. It’s dark. Things always feel different at night time, people think differently.

“A mural. We’re turning it into a restaurant.” He’s impressed by how steady his voice is, and then immediately tells himself off for it. _Why should he be impressed for acting normally around a guest?_ “Means not only guests can eat our food. The tourists can, too.”

“What makes you think are people are going to come all the way up that bloody driveway of yours?” Louis’ eyes have crinkled, so Harry dimples at him.

“You did.” And, well. That feels a little too much like flirting, so Harry adds one final stroke of sunlight and excuses himself.

 ---

 

There’s a rooftop terrace on top of the villa. Through some miracle of planning permission, the only walls around its edges are shin high - grey and white stone broken up with a few potted plants. In the morning, just as the sun clears the horizon, it’s Harry’s favourite place to be. Once or twice a fortnight he’ll wake himself before the sun, and he’ll carry his satchel and easel up to the roof to catch the most magical part of the day.

When he’s in a particularly forlorn mood, Harry thinks that the reason he likes it so much is because it’s one of the only places in the villa Dominic hadn’t been. Scared of heights and of having his picture taken, most of Harry’s memories of the man are confined to his head. All on the ground where the view was limited, where the angles never sat quite right in Harry’s brushes.

Most times, though, he likes it because it’s quiet. Kalokairi is never quiet - even at night time the sounds from the ocean never fade away - but three stories up, looking down and out across the dirt and the trees and the water, it is. Settling, grounding.

If his mum had been the sort of mother to let her children climb roofs, Harry would have jumped at the chance. Instead, he’d had to stick to trees. But the thing with trees was that they moved, and it never felt safe enough to Harry. Felt too much like the branch he was straddling could decide to cave at any moment, decide not to hold his weight and _snap_.

Roofs were much better. Dependable. Like a husband who, yes, farted, and drank too much at Christmas, and yelled at the footie, but who would always roll over for a cuddle after _Bake Off_ , and who would rub your feet, and bring you a cup of tea.

“Oh, sorry! Didn’t know anyone was up ‘ere.” The trapdoor in the middle of the terrace squeaks against its hinges, kept half open by a tan, tattooed arm. Harry shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he gestures to the far corner of the roof, “there’s a spare seat if you like.”

Louis’ head appears after the arm, and then the rest of his body follows. It makes sense, Harry’s sleepy morning brain tells him, that Louis’ body should follow his head. “D’ ya mind?” Louis waves a pack of cigarettes in the air.

Even while he’s shaking his head that Louis can go ahead, he doesn’t mind, he’s tugging his eyebrows downwards. “They’re bad for you.”

Louis’ answering grin is sharp - all teeth and thin lips, and he shrugs a shoulder. “So’s sitting on a roof all alone at sunrise.”

It’s Harry’s turn to shrug. He turns back around in his seat so he’s facing away from Louis - looking out over the island again. “Nah. ‘S nice up here.”

“Up here, sure. Not down there,” Louis jerks a thumb behind himself. “Couple of your guests are having it out.”

With a slow shake of his head Harry dips his brush into a spot of orange. “Not my guests.”

They sit in silence, Harry painting and Louis smoking in his corner of the roof, long enough for the sun to rise until the shadows where Louis is sitting disappear. He puts his cigarette out under his foot and clears his throat.

“So. Is your offer still open?”

Harry turns to blink uncertainly at him.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Exploring. Look,” he rocks back on his heels. “I’ve even got my explorer shoes on.”

Harry grins. “I’ll make sandwiches.”

 (x)

 

“So, just checking, but you _have_ been here before, haven’t you?” They’re halfway up a hill and Louis is bent in two, fingertips of his right hand trailing along the ground for balance. He’s got the other one about two centimetres from the small of Harry’s back - stretched out and up so he’s got something to grab if he _does_ fall backwards down the slope.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Harry’s foot slips and he flails to grab onto a shrub to the left of him. “Heaps.”

Louis breathes out a skeptical grunt but keeps moving up the slope, bent close to the ground and moving at snail’s pace. Harry pauses to adjust the backpack with their food in it, _not_ so that he can wait and make sure Louis doesn’t kill himself. It’s just that Louis looks half-exhausted, he looks on the verge of mutiny, he’s got dust all down his front from where he’d fallen earlier on, and he’s still one of the most beautiful men Harry has laid eyes on.

They struggle onwards for another ten minutes or so, before Louis musters up enough spare breath to snark, “There had better be an easier way down.”

“What? You mean like a road on the other side?” Harry twists his head to stare at Louis, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

“Wouldn’t go astray, yeah.”

Harry turns back around. “I mean…. the good news is that it’s all downhill?” His pace slows. “And there’s good view. Once you get there.”

Louis’ foot bounces off the second tree root in under a minute. “Don’t know if I _will_ get there, actually.”

That gets Harry to stop marching (shuffling in a half-bent over crab walk) uphill, “Yeah. Sorry. I thought … I don’t remember it being this, like, difficult. We can just turn around. Have lunch at the bottom instead.”

Louis doesn’t want to be the one who complains so much that the rest of the group changes their plans just to shut him up but, “I could go for some lunch.” He adds, “you can show me the cave you were telling me about afterwards,” to ease the blow a bit, make him seem a little less like an unfit, grumpy, prick. He _does_ quite fancy Harry. Even if absolutely nothing could happen.

 (x)

 

Harry likes the ocean, he does, really. He likes living by the ocean, likes the freedom it gives - the rise and the fall of it, and the unpredictable nature of the tides. He likes the way it makes the air smell, and he likes waking up every morning and knowing that if he wanted to, he could go for a ten minute drive and have the water right _there_.

When he was a kid, his mum used to joke that they couldn’t get him out of the pool; that he’d rolled out of the delivery room and into the water. But Harry’s family lived in the midlands of England - there wasn’t an easily accessible sea - not one you could swim in, anyway. Blackpool’s beaches weren’t exactly ideal for swimming. So Harry had swum in pools, mainly. He and his sister had taken the occasional, obligatory paddle in the sea, but he never _swam_ in one.

So, no. Despite the fact that he’s on a tiny Greek island, and that his job literally requires him to make bi-weekly trips across the sea in a tiny boat, Harry isn’t a huge fan of swimming in the ocean.

Louis, on the other hand, seems completely unbothered by the prospect of being out far enough that his feet won’t touch the bottom. “I’ll race you out to that rock,” he challenges. ‘That rock’ is a really long way from the beach they’re currently standing on, and is surrounded by breakers - white foaming shards of water that look as though they could easily crush, drown, and deposit Harry on a beach in _France_ if they wanted to.

“I think I’ll pass, actually. You’d win anyway.” Harry busies himself unpacking their lunch, hoping that it will shut Louis up.

“I really would. I could go easy on you… I s’pose. Since you’re being such a good host.”

Harry’s not looking at him, but he can feel the smirk on Louis’ face, the way his eyes crinkle up and the left side of his mouth is always just a little higher than the other. “Did your mother not teach you anything?” he asks rather than dwelling on the compliment. “It’s not good to swim on an empty stomach.”

“Actually,” Louis declares, arranging himself carefully on the rug Harry’s laid out, “I think you’ll find that you shouldn’t swim on a _full_ stomach.”

Harry sets the last sandwich out on the rug and settles down a good thirty centimetres from Louis’ nearest elbow. It’s good to keep a decent distance, he tells himself. The last thing he needs is a crush. A crush on someone who’s not even a local. On a _foreign fisherman_. Someone who will take off as soon as he can. “Oh. Well, I guess we won’t be swimming today, then.”

Louis looks like he wants to say something else, probably tease Harry about his reluctance, but Harry shoves the sandwich he’d been unwrapping in Louis’ face. It’s as effective as Harry had hoped it would be, and the spectacle of watching Louis try to delicately eat something bigger than his mouth is definitely worth the trek halfway up a mountain.

“How is there already sand in this?” Louis demands around a mouthful of lettuce, cheese, and ham. “We’ve been on the beach for literally two seconds and there’s already sand in my mouth.”

“Do you normally wait until the second visit to start eating the beach, then?” Harry quips, smirking at the disgust on Louis’ face.

“Don’t make a habit of eating sand at _all_ , mate. It’s fucking awful!”

“You’ve been at sea for months,” Harry frowns at him. “How’ve you never got sand in your food?”

The look Louis gives him is withering. “Because I’ve been _at sea_. _On the ocean_. Not near bloody beaches.”

“Oh. You’ll just have to get used to it, then.” Harry pushes more of his sandwich into his mouth, sand and all. It’s all part of the experience - ocean breeze, unpredictable tides, sand at the back of your teeth.

“I will push you in the water.” Louis looks dangerous. Harry doesn’t doubt his sincerity one bit.

“Go ahead.”

Louis sets down his sandwich on the blanket and pushes himself to his feet. He extends a hand to Harry. Once Harry’s on his feet - he didn’t accept Louis’ help, he’d like to keep some of his dignity - Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and puts his whole body into pushing him down the beach and into the surf.

When he’s man-handled Harry into knee-deep water, he gives him an almighty shove and pushes him under the waves. In a move that surprises even Harry himself, Harry reaches out and tugs Louis down with him, both of them landing on top of each other.

“Honestly, you’re such a fucking menace, Harold.” It’s hard to look serious when you’re sitting on the ocean with waves lapping at your shoulders, but Louis manages it.

“Not my name.” He spits out a stream of salt water, aiming straight for Louis’ smug face.

The disgust on his face is worth the bitter aftertaste of briny water. “Fucking Hades, then.”

“Where'd you even get that from?" Harry slaps his hand down on the surface of the water, sending the spray directly into Louis’ eyes.

“Greek mythology.” He skids his hand across the water, gets Harry back. “You’re the Greece boy. Hades? King of the Underworld…?”

"I _know_ who Hades is,” he kicks out at Louis, both of them still sitting, fully clothed in the ocean. “How d’you get Harry from Hades?”

Louis shrugs, which sends small waves lapping at Harry’s chin. “It’s a modern interpretation."

“It is not-!”

 _Splash_. “Don’t interrupt me,” he claps a wet, salty hand over Harry’s mouth. “I’m the one who got a degree in it.”

Harry licks Louis’ palm and grins winsomely when he withdraws in disgust. “What? In the nicknames of the gods?”

“I’m on quite good terms with Ziggy, actually.”

Harry can’t resist, “Who, Bowie’s alter-ego?”

"Zeus!" Louis surges to his feet and pushes Harry backwards, getting a good grip on his shoulders and holding him under the water. Harry comes up spluttering and blinking saltwater out of his eyes, but laughing.

“I know!” He pauses. “But actually, Ziggy Stardust. Seems plausible. God of Thunder, Stardust...”

Louis dunks him again, but this time Harry’s prepared, and holds onto his waist, tugging him under as well. They dissolve into a giggling, hysterical mess of splashes and screaming, tumbling senselessly about in waist deep water until the wind picks up and it gets too cold to stay in the ocean fully clothed like a pair of ten year olds.

Harry drags himself out of the water with as much dignity as he can muster considering the fact that the water has made his shirt see-through and his jeans about a foot longer. He takes solace in the fact that Louis looks just as ridiculous as he feels, and that his wet clothing means sand sticks to him like glue.

All in all, Harry counts the day as a success. Even if they never got around to visiting the cave. There’s always another day.

 (x)

 

“Guess who finally finalised the date for the party?” Sebastian’s head materialises over the top of the bar, cocktail shaker in his hand. Harry glances up from his painting for long enough to register the blue paint on his cheeks, but he ignores it and goes back to mixing more blue into the green on his ice cream lid.

“When’s it gonna be?”

“Still two weeks away. Which sucks; we were looking forward to a hen’s do.”

“The wait just makes it better, though right?” Harry darts forward to press a smooth line of blue down Sebastian’s nose. Seb stops shaking his drink and frowns down at Harry. “You’ve already got paint all over yourself,” Harry says in defence.

“Niall and Nikkos wanted to see Thalia,” Seb grimaces. “Rhea got a bit jealous, I think. And she was painting the bathroom.” He starts shaking the cocktail again. “Do you want a drink? There’s enough for two.”

Harry shakes his head and only regrets it slightly when Sebastian pours himself something red and fruity looking. He sneaks a sip when Seb turns around, anyway, so he’s satisfied. Once he’s tidied up Sebastian joins Harry at the other side of the bar.

It’s nice, spending quality one on one time with his best mate. With Sebastian being busy planning his wedding they haven’t spent time together in a while and Harry’s missed it. Sebastian had been Harry’s rock in the aftermath of Dominic and honestly, now that Harry’s not constantly sad, he’d been a bit worried that that would go away.

With Sebastian knocking his elbow against his, and leaning across to point out places he thinks could do with some touching up, Harry’s not concerned at all.

“Harry?” Sebastian asks after a long, comfortable silence. “Be my bestman?”

Harry freezes. He turns slowly to stare at Sebastian. “I-- Seriously?” Sebastian nods. “Of course!” He rocks forward and wraps him in an uncoordinated hug. “Not Nikkos?”

“Nikkos? Are you joking? I don’t want an unreliable best man, he’d lose the rings.”

“So you only want me b’cause I’m reliable?” Harry pulls back from the hug. “I might as well be a _car_.”

Sebastian grins. “I want you because you’re my best friend.”

There’s something about Sebastian that Harry missed in his friends back in England. Though he rarely makes heartfelt announcements, when he does, there’s none of the scrambling for a way to downplay it, to make a joke of something. Harry dots some purple onto his forehead because he doesn’t think he can open his mouth and not say something he’ll be embarrassed of.

“Wait,” he realises a few minutes later, “I have to look after the _rings_?”

 ---

 

“Are you sure you don’t mind minding her?” Nikkos is staring earnestly down at Elena, at his tiny niece held in her arms. Eva’s still wrinkled, looks like a wiser version of her uncle, and she’s the most precious thing Harry has ever laid eyes on. Her parents are taking a much deserved break from baby duty.

Elena makes a face at the baby tucked close to her chest, and Ava gums happily at her great aunt’s finger. “Nikkos,” she cuts off his worried cooing in Greek. “I have had children. I know babies. Me and this wee one will do just fine by ourselves.”

Nikkos bends down to press his forehead to Ava’s. “You’ll call us if anything goes wrong?”

“You’re only going to be next door! We’ll be _fine_.”

Donna smiles fondly up at her fiancé, who sets a firm hand at the dip of Nikkos’ waist. She reaches out to tickle Eva’s small feet - sets her kicking wildly, nearly knocking Nikkos on the chin. He checks another two times that Elena will send someone if something happens before he’ll let Donna drag him from the villa, but the four of them are on their way to the old goat house eventually.

They’re halfway to the bar when Niall and Josh’s laughing faces appear above the wall above a path leading down to the street below. Both of them are dressed in nothing but boxers and bright orange life jackets, and they’re tripping over themselves in what seems to be a race to the courtyard. Harry and their small group stop in their tracks and watch on amusedly until Niall looks up.

The look on his face when he notices them is enough to send Donna and Nikkos into hysterics. Harry and Sebastian bite their lips and smother their own laughter. Niall recovers from his embarrassment miraculously quickly, and props himself against the stone wall with one arm, arranging himself in a poor imitation of a suave gentleman from a silent film.

“A’right lads?” He doesn’t falter when Josh points out Donna, just shrugs and holds out a wet hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” Donna pushes down her giggles and lets Niall wrap his hand around hers. She even ducks down to press a joking kiss to the back of his knuckles, and Niall flushes red all the way down to his chest.

Nikkos lets out huffy breath. “Where’s _my_ kiss? All I get is a clap around the head.”

“You deserved it,” Donna responds, smoothing a hand over the front of her dress. “Calling me bumpy.” She has to dig her elbow into Sebastian’s side to silence his growl of disapproval, and Nikkos sidles closer to Harry.

Niall, bless him, pushes himself away from the wall. “C’mere then,” he grabs Nikkos by the shoulders and plants a loud raspberry smack bang in the crook of his neck. “You’re too bloody big to kiss properly so that’ll have t’ do.”

Harry is saved having to ponder Nikkos’ lack of response by Louis’ head appearing over the wall.

Unlike his crewmates, he is fully dressed - absurdly colourful button-up that looks like it came straight from the racks of a tourist shop, and a pair of stonewashed jeans which he’s rolled up to mid calf. He’s wearing the same life jacket that Niall and Josh are, but his is undone and hanging wantonly around his neck. Liam follows after him in a similar state of dress, except his jacket is done up and his jeans are a little wet at the bottom.

Harry has a brief moment where he wants to throw Louis over his shoulder and walk off with him, but he pushes it down. Nothing good can come from dwelling on the feeling in his chest.

“Ya know they don’t work if ya don’t do ‘em up, right Tommo?” Niall demands, arms crossed across his chest. He looks about as threatening as someone wearing only a pair of soaking wet The Hulk boxers can. Which is to say, not at all.

Harry matches Niall’s stance. “‘S like not wearing a bulletproof vest to a shoot out.”

Louis pulls a face at him and makes a big show of loosening the life vest even more. Liam gives him a slight push, looking like he’s torn between laughing and reprimanding Louis. “I live on a boat. Don’t need to bother wiv it.” The expression on Liam’s face makes it obvious that he’s chaffing at the bit to tell Louis off, but Niall stops him.

“Where are you lot off to, then? Night on the town?” He looks around them as if the darkened courtyard will fall apart around them to reveal a buzzing nightlife.

“Night in, rather,” Harry says. “Watching a film in the goat house if you want to join?”

Louis doesn’t even hesitate before nodding, turning up the heat of his grin and looping an arm around Liam’s waist. “A night in sounds like just what we need, innit lads? Haven’t seen a film in _months_.” He pinches at Liam’s nipple, and in the resulting tussle, Harry zeroes in on the muscles of Louis’ thighs, the way his jeans run smoothly over the delicate bulk of them, the way Liam’s fingers are digging into his waist.

He’s torn between wanting to touch, and wanting to take a photo; wanting to draw the contradiction of soft and hard, delicate and strong.

Donna’s hand at the back of his neck tears his attention away and judging by the worried look Sebastian is giving him, it’s a purposeful distraction. Harry’s glad he’s got them - he doesn’t need to be falling for boys who’ll up and leave as soon as their boat is ready.

What he needs to do is get some booze from the bar, get drunk with his mates, and put all thoughts of relationships with cute, English sailor boys safely away in a locked box. As far away from the reckless side of his brain as possible.

 ---

 

Ignoring Louis turns out to be harder than Harry had thought.

As soon as Louis had worked his way out of Liam’s headlock, he’d fell into step with Harry. He digs a sharp elbow into Harry’s side and wiggles a beer bottle out from Harry’s armpit. “I hope there’s more than just loos in this place.” He pops the bottle into his mouth and uses his molars to twist off the bottle top. Harry winces.

“Shouldn’t do that.”

Louis extends his tongue to show the circle of metal lying there, shiny with spit. “Because I don’t fancy watching a film sat on the bog.”

Harry holds the door to the goat house open for Louis. And for everyone else, but Louis is still talking around the bottle cap in his mouth so Harry’s a bit preoccupied. “There’s a telly upstairs. Beanbags and a couch.”

There aren’t any _actual_ stairs involved, just a ladder and a trap door, which makes lugging several bottles of alcohol rather difficult, but they work out it out. Niall, Liam and Josh climb up first, and hold onto Niall’s ankles while Harry and Nikkos pass up the drinks. Afterwards Liam hauls Niall out of the way, and the rest of them climb through - Sebastian keeping a careful hand on Donna’s back despite her protests.

“Well,” Liam surveys the room, “this is cosy.”

Louis has somehow snugged himself up against Harry in the few seconds between climbing through the manhole and getting to his feet, and he’s reclaimed his bottle of beer. Harry doubts that he ever actually let it go, thinks he just clamped his teeth around it and climbed up.

“It is. You sure you lads want to lose this to the tourists?” Louis is looking entirely at Harry, though his question is directed to the whole room, eyes bright and body warm against Harry’s side. His tongue feels like cardboard. Instead of answering, Harry sidles out of Louis’ grip and moves to turn the TV on.

Nikkos hands over a semi-legal copy of _Grease_ and Harry rocks back on his heels while the VCR whirs into life. He has to wind the tape all the way back to the beginning since whoever Nikkos bought it off had finished halfway through, and Louis gets up from the sofa to bring him a beer.

Eventually though, the film is underway, and Harry tucks himself on the sofa between Louis and the armrest. Louis’ elbow is digging into his side ever so slightly. It’s nice, having a warm weight beside him. After Dominic, he’s missed that. Sebastian and Nikkos don’t really count.

Everyone except Donna is at least halfway to being drunk before the film is even halfway through. Josh had pulled up a list of drinking games, and they’d all put their own twist on them - Louis in particular has been taking swigs of Bourbon every time someone says _‘Sandy.’_ Harry has been trying not to notice that for every drink Louis finishes, he gets closer and closer to Harry.

It’s hard not to notice when Louis’s legs end up across his lap though, one arm looped around his neck, and hot breath puffing out over his ear.

“Louis?” Harry murmurs.

“Mmm?” Louis’ nose brushes against Harry’s jaw, and he shivers.

Harry had been going to ask Louis to move, to reinstate the boundaries that should exist between them; stop himself from falling for Louis and making a fool of himself. Instead he shifts under Louis’ weight and pulls his legs closer. “You can get comfy. I don’t mind.”

He _should_ mind.

The smile that Louis gives him as he scoots his bum closer to Harry and pillows his head in the crook of his neck is enough to wipe all thoughts of what he _should_ do out of his head. Olivia Newton John sings about devotion, and Harry watches the light from the screen bounce off Louis’ cheekbones.

He doesn’t even feel very drunk.

 (x)

 

Louis’ first thought is that he’s back on the boat. He’s being rocked side to side, the movements similar to those of the waves. He has only just gotten used to falling asleep and waking up on dry land, without the rise and fall of the ocean. He blinks his eyes open and just barely registers dark black cotton. He lies there for a few more moments before he realises exactly where he is.

He moves his head and sure enough, it’s Harry’s chest. Louis remembers the fabric of his t-shirt against his cheek, how broad and strong and _capable_ Harry’s shoulders had felt. He thinks he remembers spilling his last mouthful of beer all over Harry’s jeans, but he’s not sure. By that point of the film, Louis was long gone. He must have fallen asleep at some point, and that’s why Harry’s carrying him.

“Hi, sleepyhead.” Harry’s voice rumbles out from the centre of his chest and Louis’ brain jumps to how orphaned kittens and puppies are given soft toys with clocks inside them to mimic their mother’s heartbeat. “You fell asleep on us. Thought I should get you to a bed.”

Louis tries desperately to instruct his drunk brain not to take that out of context. It’s not as if Harry is _taking him to bed_. He’s just being a good mate, didn’t want Louis to wake up on the sofa of the goat house. Speaking of which…

“How’d y’ get me down?” His voice is embarrassingly scratchy and he is definitely still drunk - Harry’s big, kind face spinning above him.

“Nikkos and Liam helped. Passed you down to me and Seb,” Harry’s smile is secretive. “You sleep like the dead.”

Louis presses a smile into Harry’s shirt. It smells like laundry powder and sweat. Louis thinks back to the smell of Harry’s sheets his first night on the island. It’s comforting. “Only when there’s a cute boy lookin’ after me.”

In the moonlight, Harry looks like a god. He looks like every definition of Olympian that Louis has ever learnt. Tall, strong, _handsome_. He’s polite, too. And a very bad idea - the thrill of a chase, a fox hunt where Louis is the hunted. But Louis has a few too many drinks in him to remember that, so he snuggles closer. Presses an open mouthed kiss over the fabric of his t-shirt.

“You are _very_ drunk,” Harry replies and they continue back to the villa in silence. It’s only when Harry goes to deposit Louis in the room he shares with Niall that Louis says anything.

“You’re very warm,” he presses his face into Harry’s armpit. “Cosy. Like a cat.” Harry laughs and Louis echoes it. “Sound like a clock. A cute clock, though. Like you. My cute coc-- _clock_ , yeah?” Harry’s chest rumbles again and he pulls the sheets up around Louis’ chin. Louis wishes he’d climb in beside him. There’s enough room on the mattress for two, after all. He says as much to Harry, but the man just smiles gently down at him.

“G’night Louis,” he murmurs.

Louis closes his eyes and gives Harry a contented smile. “Night.” He drifts off to images of clocks with round green eyes for faces, and of long slender fingers turning into compass arrows pointing North.

 ---

 

The bustle of a Monday morning on Kalokairi stops for no one. Not even someone with a hangover. Not even someone with a hangover _and_ a mortified suspicion that they did something stupid while they were drunk. Instead of lying in bed feeling sorry for himself and listening to what may as well be a cacophony outside his window, Louis forces himself into the shower.

He has to brace himself against the bedside table, and only just makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up in the sink. There are a pair of ladies pants in the bathtub, although Louis is almost certain that Niall hadn’t been into the room all night. He must have snuck her in and out between working on the _Persephone_ the day before. Louis admires Niall’s ability to be everywhere at once.

He throws up once more, this time bracing himself on the cool porcelain of the toilet, before he flicks the shower on and shrugs out of his dirty clothes. While he washes the smell of stale booze and vomit off himself, Louis’ mind has a chance to wander.

Memories from the night before - of the smell of Harry’s shirt, something spicy and warm; the way the rise and fall of his shoulders had lulled Louis to sleep… Oh god, the way Harry’s arms had felt around him when he’d carried him back to the villa. Mortified doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it, not when Louis remembers what he’d said.

The stream of water against his back stutters slightly and Louis finishes his shower quickly, before the pleasant warmth can give way to a blast of boiling water followed by bone chilling cold. He towels off quickly and gives his naked self a once over in the mirror.

His hair looks bleak, but it always does after a shower. He’s got a nice, even tan developing, chest and legs beginning to match the golden brown of his shoulders. His gaze drops to his cock, hanging soft and warm between his legs and he contemplates a quick wank over the loo. His skull thuds, reminding him that he’s got bigger things to worry about than getting off.

Harry’s face flashes across the backs of Louis’ eyelids, his soft, gentle smile and the way he’d brushed off Louis’ words last night, the way he’s probably downstairs thinking up words to let Louis down gently. His dick can wait. After all, the mattress in the other room has been witness to far too many well-meaning wanks ending with a flash of green eyes and dimpled cheeks for Louis to even pretend that he wouldn’t be thinking of Harry.

The door to the room bangs shut, and Louis wraps the towel around his waist before stepping out of the bathroom. “Neil!” He greets the blond, staring at the shirt he’s wearing several sizes too large. “Where’ve you been?”

Niall’s coy grin is answer enough. “At a mate’s. You know how it is.”

“Oh, with a _mate_. Ri-ght.” Louis doesn’t have two legs to stand on, but Niall doesn’t know that.

“Like you can talk,” Niall flops down at the end of Louis’ bed. “I saw Harry carry you back.” He stretches himself out along the top of the duvet, presses his face into the bedding. “Anywhere I should be avoiding? No wet patches?” Niall scrambles to his feet to avoid the towel Louis flings at him.

“Are you _smelling_ my bed!?” Louis has his hands on his hips, and Niall raises and eyebrow.

“Mate, while you have a lovely prick an’ all, I’d really rather not have to stare at it…” Niall pulls the shirt that is definitely not his over his head and scratched at his bare stomach.

Louis scowls. “Like you haven’t seen it before.”

“Not by _choice_ ,” Niall yelps, and Louis fondly recalls the hours they’d spent playing strip poker on the _Persephone_. He also thinks of the time that Niall had left the door to the aft cabin open and Louis had walked in on him wanking. He doesn’t think much of the nudity their crew had been exposed to was entirely one sided or purposeful.

To get Niall back for smelling his bloody blankets ( _who_ sniffs _possible sex sheets?_ ) Louis scratches at his balls and wipes his hand firmly across Niall’s pillow case. The resulting shriek of horror and the flying towel that slaps against Louis’ naked back and fall to the floor is deeply, deeply satisfying. It almost gives Louis the courage to go out and face Harry. Almost.

 ---

 

Being a Monday, Louis has no choice but to leave their room eventually. The supply boat is arriving, this time with everything they need for the _Persephone’_ s rebuild, and Louis should at least pretend to want to be there for that. He also needs painkillers which are kept in a cupboard above the kitchen sink.

Louis hates communal living.

He immediately changes his mind when he sees Harry - shirtless and wearing a faded pair of denim shorts - sat with his feet in the kitchen sink, in the same position he’d been the day Louis first met him. The fact that Harry is the source of Louis’ impending humiliation doesn’t change the fact that he is, indisputably, the most gorgeous boy Louis has ever seen.

“Mornin’,” Harry chirps, looking up from a _Better Homes and Gardens_ magazine. “Head not too sore?”

Louis crosses the kitchen in deft strides, and takes a glass from the cabinet across from Harry as quickly as possible. “Not too bad, no. Niall had a rough night.”

“Oh?” Harry lifts his eyebrows.

“Found some bird’s bloody pants in me bathtub.”

Harry blushes very prettily, and drops his eyes to the magazine. “Oh.”

 _Oh_? What does that mean? Louis fossicks around in the medicine cupboard and downs a couple of Panadol before he says anything. “So what did you--"

“Does that mean… Oh, sorry. You go.” Harry’s blush deepens.

Louis shakes his head, leans back against the kitchen table. “No, it’s fine. You were going to say something.”

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his expression is blank. “Does that mean you two had… people in your room then?” He says it slowly, deliberately, leaving no room for Louis to misinterpret the words.

He wishes he could say yes, nod and pretend that after Harry had left, he and Niall had invited people into bed, but… But he can’t. “No. Slept all through the night. Just me. Since, um…” Harry’s question has conjured up thoughts Louis hadn’t considered. “Did _you_?”

“No!” Harry’s shoulders are tense. “And I didn’t… I didn’t take advantage of you, either. If you were … If you were wondering.”

 _What on earth is this boy on about?_ “Harry.” Louis knows his voice is sharp, but the devastated expression on Harry’s face confirms it. He hurries to continue. “What are you talking about?”

Harry hunches in on himself, shoulder blades nearly touching his knees. “Last night. You were drunk. I, um… I didn’t-- I would never have like, um, let you kiss me. So you don’t need to worry. About that.”

“ _Let_ me kiss you? Harry, were you seeing the same thing I was last night?” Louis is incredulous. “I _wanted_ to kiss you!”

It’s comical how quickly Harry’s expression changes. He lets the magazine fall closed. His face loosens up like Louis’ words have pried his joints apart. He still doesn’t look up, though.

“Oh.” Harry knots his fingers together in his lap. “Really?” His words are laced with surprise, and Louis aches a little at the thought that Harry mightn’t see himself as someone Louis might want to kiss. If anything, _Louis_ is the lucky one. Harry smells like pine trees and cinnamon, and Louis just smells like a fishing boat.

“Pretty sure I told you that, actually,” Louis’ go-to in unfamiliar situations has always been humour.

Harry looks up. Fucking _finally_ , he’s got a nice face to look at. “You didn’t, actually.” He’s grinning. Louis feels like he’s won something.

“Well, I mean,” he pauses to smirk, “I had my face in your armpit. I live on a boat. ‘S that not how people flirt?” It works a laugh out of Harry, a joyous cackle of a thing. Harry claps a hand over his mouth, eyes blown wide and embarrassed. Louis grins at him. “I’m not very familiar with the place, but I’m sure I could find somewhere that serves a decent Merlot. Wine and dine you proper like?”

 ---

 

All sign of his earlier shyness has disappeared by the time Harry is singing along to the radio in the Jeep.

“ _You can go your own way! You can call it another lonely da-y!_ ” Harry is absolutely belting the lyrics out, eyes covered by dark sunglasses. It can’t really pass for singing because Harry is grinning too much for his words to be anything other than happy screams - half garbled by the wind. The roof of the Jeep is down, and his hair is being blown all around his face. He spits some out of his mouth and his tongue peeks through his lips.

Louis has been relegated to the passenger seat, Harry refusing to consider not driving. It gives Louis a chance to admire him though, so he’s not complaining. Harry’s long fingers tap against the wheel, and he shimmies his shoulders with enough enthusiasm that Louis very nearly reaches over to steady the wheel. Harry notices his nerves and leans across the gear shift to pat Louis’ knee.

“Relax,” he keeps a loose grip on the wheel. “I could do this with my eyes closed.”

Louis picks up Harry’s hand off his leg and manhandles it back onto the steering wheel. “Please don’t.” He squeaks high in his throat when instead of keeping his eyes on an upcoming corner, Harry glances across at Louis. “We are _on the edge_ of a _cliff_ , Harry!”

Harry’s response is, of course, to take his right hand off the wheel and raise his glasses enough that Louis can see him roll his eyes. Thank _fuck_ both of Harry’s hands find their way back to the wheel by the time the next corner comes along. Completely blind, very close to both the edge of the cliff and the rock wall above them, and potholed. Louis doesn’t release his white-knuckles grip on the side of his seat until they’re safely parked by the ocean.

It’s a wee bit of a walk along the beach until they reach Harry’s dinghy, and Louis concentrates on placing his feet carefully so that sand doesn’t work its way into his shoes. Harry notices what he’s doing, and knocks his elbow against Louis’.

“You really hate sand.”

“ _Yes_.” Louis grumbles, already feeling a little bit of grit in his socks. “Doesn’t belong fucking anywhere. Pain in the arse.”

“Anywhere? Even in foot scrub?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis says. “It’s completely unnecessary.”

Harry is shaking his head and unties the dinghy while Louis rolls up the ends of his jeans. “I’ll make you change your mind. Promise.”

The mid-morning sun illuminates Harry’s long body - creating a golden glow around his shoulders and through his hair. He’s wearing a stretched out white shirt and Louis can see his tattoos through the fabric. His feet are turned out at the ankle as if he’s trying to correct his pigeon toes. Louis is hopelessly endeared.

The ocean is blessedly calm and their conversation ebbs and flows naturally, the quiet between them comfortable and their laughter easy. The harbour at Skiathos is surprisingly busy for before noon and Louis has to get out of the boat while the water is thigh deep to drag them ashore. It’s a credit to how _much_ he wants to kiss Harry that he doesn’t bitch about getting his jeans wet once.

“So, I was thinking we could check out the markets a bit more. Pick up something for dinner--"

Louis cuts Harry off with a stern finger. “Uh uh. I don’t think so. This is _my_ date. Your job is just to sit back and enjoy it. Let me woo you.” Louis wiggles his eyebrows at Harry, draws himself up to his full height.

“So what would you suggest?” Harry asks, small secretive smile playing across his lips.

Louis tilts his chin upwards. “We could wander the markets for a bit. Find a nice wee restaurant. Maybe pick summat up for dinner?” He grins. Harry punches his arm.

“So basically what I said.”

“No. Not what you said. You’re not planning this date, any suggestions you have are struck from the record.”

“Is this how fishermen flirt?” Harry smiles and Louis nods.

“Mmhm. If you’re lucky I might snog your armpit later.”

Harry dissolves into giggles and Louis forgets about keeping the sand out of his shoes and away from his wet jeans. Olympians are well and truly alive, and Louis is brushing elbows with one. Actually, scratch that. He’s taking one to dinner.

 ---

 

“Louis, you can’t call it dinner. It’s eleven in the morning.” Harry frowns at him over the top of his menu.

They’re sitting by the window of a quaint wee restaurant that Harry had initially complained about.

_“It’s too expensive, Louis. We can just grab a sandwich or something.”_

Louis had brushed off Harry’s worrying, _“I’ll pay, Harry. It’s fine. We are_ not _having sandwiches on our first date_. _”_ The mention of _date_ had won Harry over enough that Louis was able to grab his elbow and tug him inside before Harry’s brain could kick in again.

Their table is small enough that Harry’s knees knock against Louis’ every time they move. Louis reaches out to press a finger into the pulse at the base of Harry’s wrist.

“If I call it breakfast, it feels wrong to order wine. This way, no one has to feel bad about a potential drinking problem.”

Harry, bless him, just huffs a gentle sigh. “Then don’t order wine.”

“Harry,” Louis says. “I promised you a Merlot.” He catches one of Harry’s feet between his own. “And besides, I quite fancy a nice glass of red. Helps with me hangover.”

Harry wiggles his foot free of Louis’ and makes an attack of his own, both feet darting forward and clobbering Louis in the shins. His breath comes out in a wounded huff, and Harry pales. “I am _so_ sorry--"

Louis gives him a sharp smile, curling his lip just so to reveal his incisors. He watches Harry’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He lets himself relish the happy burbling in his gut for a few moments and then slips far enough down in his chair to press his heel to the toe of Harry’s shoe. Harry grimaces and kicks out in retaliation.

With the full scale war that escalates, it’s a wonder they don’t get themselves kicked out of the restaurant.

 (x)

 

“Louis, I’m serious.” Harry pries Louis’ fingers off a tube of grout.

“So am I.” Louis wedges his elbow into Harry’s side, right under his ribs where he’s most sensitive.

Harry turns pleading eyes on the woman behind the stall. “You’re not buying me _grout_. Breakfast was bad enough.”

Louis had insisted on paying for both of their meals, plus a whole bottle of overpriced wine. Harry can’t shake the polite guilt over not paying a cent for anything.

“It is a _date_ , Harold. My shout.”

And Louis keeps excusing him with the fact that they’re on a date.

“ _Exactly,_ ” Harry reclaims the tube and hands over the correct change. “It’s a date. Grout is _not_ the sort of thing you treat your date to.” He notices the way Louis’ eyes light up at the mention of being treated, and Harry’s shaking his head before he can say anything. “ _Which_ you have already done _plenty_ of, today. No more.” He sends the saleswoman a polite smile before leading Louis away with a gentle hand at his elbow.

“Harry.” Louis pulls them to a stop outside a stall selling all manner of bright, gaudy clothing. Aimed for tourists, clearly.

“No.” Harry knows where this is going. Louis’ smug smile is proof enough.

“Let me buy you one.” It’s not a question.

“No.”

“Why? Do you not like them?”

It’s certainly a way to get Louis off his case. “No.”

“Are you going to say anything other than that?” Louis doesn’t give him a chance to answer. “ _I’ve_ got one. Was wearing it last night. We would match.”

Harry thinks about the way Louis’ skin had looked under the floral pattern, about his warm weight against his shoulder in the goat house, about his hands tangled in the front of Harry’s shirt when he’d carried Louis to bed. Along with those memories come a flood of Louis’ drunken words: _‘only when there’s a cute boy’_ ; _‘my cute clock’_ ; _‘stay the night?’_ and then, this morning, _‘I wanted to kiss you.’_

Harry certainly wants to kiss Louis.

Louis takes advantage of Harry’s distraction, and pushes him behind a little curtain erected as a makeshift changing room and throws a handful of shirts at him - each gaudier and more mismatched then the next. “You had better come out of there with one you want, or so help me God, I will drown you.”

Louis’ voice is thick with fondness, and Harry- well. Harry’s helpless but to do exactly what Louis says.

The sun is setting by the time they get back to the dinghy. Louis’ hanging off Harry’s arm, a warm, solid weight, and Harry’s free hand is clutching the handle of a reuseable bag. Their date had taken them through the market about six times, picking up food and drink, clothing and knick knacks along the way.

They’re both giggly and loose with wine and sunshine, and if he was thinking about anything other than the way Louis feels slotted under his arm, Harry would wait to take the boat until he’d sobered up a bit. Instead, he lets Louis kick at his feet in the bottom of the dinghy and squints his eyes closed around helpless laughter.

They’re not even halfway home in the Jeep - Harry driving again - when it starts raining. Raining as in _absolutely_ chucking buckets. One minute, they’re driving along, singing along to _Human_ in stupid squeaky voices, Harry chiming in intermittently with ‘ _are we dancer, dancer, danc-eeeee-r?’_ as if he’s at a rave, and the next the sky opens and they’re being drowned.

“Fu-ck!” Louis chokes on a laugh and flaps his hands about uselessly. Harry is cackling in the way people only do in ridiculous, frantic situations. “Put the roof up! Can you put the roof up?”

Harry’s laughter condenses him. He’s buckled over, gripping onto the steering wheel with his eyes almost fully closed. It’s downright dangerous, is what it is, but Louis can’t quite bring himself to care. “It’s at the … At the villa.” Harry chokes out and Louis swears again. There’s a small, cold puddle forming in the footwell.

“Shit!” Louis struggles out of his jacket, he’s soaked to the bone so it’s no use for warmth anymore. The rain is coming down in droves, cutting harshly into their faces, and Harry’s squinting has turned into squinting to see rather than a by-product of his laughter. Louis leans across the Jeep to hold his jacket above Harry’s head.

A big, warm hand comes up to touch Louis’ wrist but Louis smacks it away, causing the sleeve of his jacket to dangle dangerously in front of Harry’s face. “Nope! Both hands on the wheel!” When Harry turns his head to grin at him, Louis shrieks. “Eyes on the _road_! You’re fucking Hades, swear on me life!”

Harry raises his eyebrows, but keeps his eyes on the road. “I’m sure Persephone wouldn’t be too happy to hear that,” he dead pans. Louis very nearly clobbers him around the ears. They might _die_ in this rain. It might actually _drown_ them. Louis survived a shipwreck, he’ll be damned if he dies in a Jeep because Harry thinks it’s funny to joke about screwing the Lord of the Underworld.

The ground has turned a mushy red-brown colour and the Jeep’s wheels gouge out troughs in the soil just before the gate to the villa. The archway isn’t wide enough for vehicles, so they have to collect their bags from where they’d thrown them in the backseat, and make a haphazard sprint up the driveway. They both run half bent-over, a last ditch effort to keep dry. Misguided, because Louis can see right through Harry’s shirt to the smallest of his nipples.

The lights from the villa light reach them even halfway up the driveway, and if he weren’t so focused on getting out of the rain, Louis would reach out and touch. Trail his fingers down Harry’s chest, slip his palm under the hem of his shirt and _touch_. He’s learnt today that Harry runs hot, his body a continuous, comforting heat.

They tumble into the kitchen, dripping water all over the floors, hanging onto each other and laughing like morons. Harry has his arm firmly wrapped around Louis’ waist and he stoops forward like he’s going to kiss the water off the tip of Louis’ nose. He doesn’t though, just tucks a wet swoop of hair behind Louis’ ear.

Louis is quite disappointed, honestly. He’s never really been a fan of tongues near his nose, but Harry’s tongue looks soft and pink and warm, and Louis’ nose is really quite cold. He pats at Harry’s chest a bit awkwardly and the feeling catches. Harry rocks back on his heels and nearly topples over when he takes a step backward, away from Louis.

“So. Today was-- was great.”

 _That’s it_ , Louis thinks, _that’s how it goes in films. ‘Thanks for tonight’ and then BAM! Snogging._

Harry’s throat bobs, swallowing around discarded words, and Louis’ stomach bubbles at the thought of them. “Pity it was so, um…” He’s acting strange again, the same unsure set to his forehead that had been there that morning. “Goodnight.”

It’s so abrupt - Harry ducking his chin into his chest and swiveling on the heel of one sopping wet trainer - that Louis nearly misses Harry’s elbow. He’s got excellent hand-eye coordination though, so he doesn’t miss.

“Whatever happened to wining and dining?” Louis asks. Harry stammers and Louis talks right over him. “Because me mum had me believe I’d at least get a kiss on the cheek.” Harry’s blush is so pretty, Louis wants to pick it up with his fingertips and sew it into cloth. It’s a blush that could sail ships, let alone sink them. It could sail a whole fleet across the world and not even think twice about it.

“So,” he asks, “gonna wine and dine me proper? Or am I going t’ have to come up there meself?”

Louis wants to imbed the laughter on Harry’s lips in a bottle. Plastic not glass, because plastic stays in landfills for hundreds of years. Harry’s giggle is a One Hundred Years kind of a thing. Beautiful and life-changing and, actually, kind of delirious. Though that’s probably just a side-effect of being rained on and cold. And the wine.

Instead of doing something stupid like asking Harry to laugh into a bottle, Louis presses up into Harry’s mouth and scratches his nails through the fine hairs at the base of Harry’s neck. It’s warm there. Warm like the tongue currently licking over the seam of his lips. Warm and wet and soft, just like Louis had imagined.

He grumbles into the kiss and pulls back, taking stock of the wonderful boy in front of him. Man, really. Harry’s chest is so so broad in front of him, and his hands have fit themselves _just so_ at the curve of Louis’ back. “Uh uh,” he presses a chaste kiss to Harry’s pout. “Mum also said no tongues until the second date.”

There it is again. Harry’s laugh. Bouncing off the cabinets and ringing behind Louis’ eyes. “She did _not_!”

“She did! Me mum’s a worldly woman, Harry. You’d best be careful.” He can’t help the grin that is currently threatening to take over his face, nor the feeling bubbling up in his chest, something like _happy_ and _safe_ and _home_. Louis is so, so screwed.

 ---

 

“Not _another_ one, Harry!” Sebastian snaps a tea towel out to its full length between his hands, and folds it deftly. Harry raises a shoulder at him. “How many of them do you _need_?” Harry is rolling his eyes and doesn’t appear to think it’s at all strange that his best mate thinks the shirt Louis had forced him to buy is a common occurrence. Louis has only ever seen Harry in plain tshirts.

“I mean--” Harry fossicks through the fruitbowl. “It’s not hurting anyone?” He plucks a pair of socks from Seb’s hands and hoists himself up onto the kitchen bench. Louis shifts in his chair.

Harry is wearing a pair of Louis’ joggers and the shirt Louis had bullied him into the day before. It’s long-sleeved, but Harry has the arms rolled up to just beneath his biceps, framing the rolling muscle and tattoos obscenely.

The shirt itself is an insult to shirts everywhere - each section of it mismatched: green and orange sleeves, red and blue florals for each side of the front, and a solid rectangle of pinky-purple across Harry’s back. It’s hideous. Louis loves it.

Sebastian shakes his head. “It’s hurting my eyes. Donna won’t even come out of the room it’s so awful.”

“Donna’s still asleep,” Louis objects, coming to stand beside Harry. “And if Harry wants to branch out, let him.”

Sebastian lets the shirt he’d been folding hang loose from one hand. “Branch out? What?”

A blush rises on Harry’s cheek when Louis gestures at the shirt. “ _This_. Just b’cause he doesn’t wear patterns doesn’t mean--" Louis stops. Sebastian is laughing, and Harry is picking intently at the skin of his orange. “You-- Is this a common thing, then?”

A tiny nod from Harry.

“You told me you hated it.”

Sebastian is watching them with a content smile playing across his lips.

Harry whines, high in his throat. “I did not!”

“Not in so many words,” Louis takes the socks from between Harry’s thighs. A bit risque, possibly, but nevertheless. “I asked if you didn’t like it and you agreed.”

Harry peels off some more orange zest. “I was saying no to everything.” Louis levels him with the sternest stare he can muster. “It was a way to get you to stop buying me stuff.”

Louis throws the socks at Harry’s face and walks about of the kitchen with as much dignity as he can muster. It’s hard, when he’s wearing one of Niall’s singlets and a pair of Harry’s joggers. But he thinks he manages quite well.

 ---

 

To give him credit, Harry approaches very quietly. But Louis has lived for months in a confined space with three lads who enjoy a prank far too much for a fishing crew on the open sea. Louis humours him though, and doesn’t look up until Harry has himself pressed along Louis’ back with his lips pressed to the soft skin under Louis’ ear.

“I do like it,” he whispers. “Promise.”

Louis bites back a smile. He is too gone on this boy. “What’re you gonna do t’ win me back?”

Harry kisses down the line of his throat, sucking over his Adam’s apple, bold as brass. “Mmm,” he hums into Louis’ skin. “Take you to that cave?”

Louis twists his head to meet Harry’s searching mouth and grins against the slight scrape of teeth along his bottom lip. “Will there be wine?” The lick of Harry’s tongue against his gums is answer enough. Louis really is far, far too easy for this boy.

 ---

 

There _is_ wine, the sparkling stuff. It fizzes up Louis’ nose and bounces around his skull, and Harry’s knees dig into his hips.

“D’you think,” Harry asks from his perch on Louis’ lap, “that if we stayed down here long enough, we’d see like… creatures?”

Louis quirks an eyebrow at him, slips his hands under the hem of Harry’s ridiculous shirt. “Creatures? What, like turtles or summat?” He runs his fingers over the smooth skin of Harry’s back, and the boy in his lap shivers.

“Nah,” he leans his head into Louis’ shoulder. “Like, _Creatures_. Storybook stuff.” He presses little nips over Louis’ collarbone. Louis can feels his smile.

“Selkies and that?” Harry hums into his neck. “Yeah, I guess. Greece has got to have native Creatures. Selkies are more like… Northern aren’t they?

Harry nods earnestly. “Oh, yeah. Too hot down here for them, I think. They’d probably… Hey! Wouldn’t it be _wicked_ if they melted?!”

Louis hides his smirk in Harry’s chest, between his two bird tattoos which are peeking out from the collar of his shirt. “Mmn mmn. Selkie soup. Give them a taste of what for an’ all.” Harry grins at him, bright and wonderful. Louis tilts his chin up to kiss him.

When Harry pulls away, bottom lip kissed red and full, he knocks his nose against Louis’. “Probably they’d have mermaids down here. More colourful than the Channel.”

“You think _mermaids_ live in the English Channel?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “No. Selkies live in the English Channel. Mermaids live in the Mediterranean.” Like it’s obvious.

“Then we won’t be seeing a mermaid today, will we?” When Harry stares blankly down at him, Louis tucks the tips of his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s trousers.

Harry reaches down and around Louis, forcing him to lean back so Harry doesn’t brain him with his forehead. Louis balances them with Harry’s hips, not wanting to let go, and watches Harry draw a small, lopsided heart in a patch of sand. It makes something in Louis’ chest ache.

The cave they’re in is one of those coastal ones - the sort that have a bit of a pool in the middle where the ocean comes in, and a rocky shelf around. It reminds Louis of a cave he saw in one of his sister’s TV shows. That was about mermaids, he thinks. Topical. Anyway, they’d swam in, Harry’s idea, so they’re completely soaked.

Louis presses his fingers into the soft give of Harry’s hips, brings his attention back.

“Why not?”

“We’re in the Aegean Sea.”

Harry shrugs. “They’re connected.”

“Harold--"

“Not my name.”

“Fine. Hades,” Louis pauses to grin down at him when Harry erupts in giggles. “All the oceans are connected. With that logic, they’d just swim to the Channel as well.”

“Uh, no. Too far. Too cold.” He pauses, bites his lip. “Not enough cute boys.”

“Excuse me!” Louis squawks in faux offense. “Watch what you’re saying!”

Harry fixes an apologetic stare on Louis. “I said not _enough_. Not that there weren’t any. Although…” He trails off, eyes teasing. Louis bucks his hips up to throw Harry off balance, and gains enough momentum to roll them over so Harry’s flat on his back against the moss covered rock shelf.

“Pretty sure _you’re_ English, too.”

“Oh, well in that case--” He doesn’t get to finish because Louis licks into his mouth, chasing the strawberry taste of the back of his tongue.

 (x)

 

Harry has electricity buzzing through his veins when he says goodnight to Louis outside the door of his room.

Louis had insisted on walking Harry all the way ‘home’; had given him a lingering kiss outside his door. He is fully aware that he’s reverted to his teenage years, but Harry can’t help replaying their date over and over again. Louis’ laugh against his ear, the softness of his hips, the heat of his hands playing tentatively over Harry’s lower back.

Harry flops backward onto his bed with a groan. He breathes out a slow breath and kicks his shoes off, gets comfy. Since he’s really harnessing his past teenage-self, Harry slides his hand down the garish pattern of his shirt, pops the button on his jeans.

He ghosts his palm back up his chest, lingers around the sensitive skin of his chest, then lets himself edge his way down to the hair scattered underneath his belly button. He scritches his fingers through the hair curling dark and coarse at the dip of his groin, brushes his knuckles against the crease of his thighs. He closes his eyes on an exhale, and summons the memory of Louis’ heat between his legs.

 ---

 

He wakes up the next morning to Sebastian and Donna sitting at the end of his bed. It’s a testament to how often things like this happen that he doesn’t react except to turn over on his side and tuck the pillow under his chin.

“Mmf, ‘m sleepin’,” he grumbles. Sebastian just shifts on the mattress, waits Harry out. Eventually, he realises he isn’t going to get them to go away by ignoring them, so he wriggles himself onto his back. “What?”

“Harry,” Sebastian says, voice low. “Did you have fun yesterday?”

Harry can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face at the thought of Louis’ sharp smile the day before. It’s only then that he realises he’s naked beneath the thin sheet - his pants kicked onto the floor along with the duvet. He pulls the sheet tighter around himself.

“Yeah,” he grins, bright and happy up at Sebastian. Donna purses her lips. Harry’s smile dims, just a bit. He’d thought they’d be happy for him. “What’s wrong?”

Sebastian takes one of Donna’s hands in his. Harry’s heart drops. _Are they okay? Is Donna ill? Oh god, are they calling off the wedding?_ Sebastian clears his throat. “So, you and Louis are…?” Harry clenches his jaw involuntarily. He thinks he knows where this is going. He wishes he didn’t. “A bit of fun, then?”

“Pardon?” _God_ , he’s not even dressed for fuck’s sake.

“Are you-- Harry.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle. It makes Harry want to smack him. “You know Louis is leaving, right?”

Harry sits upright in bed, glaring at his friend and breathing slowly. He doesn’t want to yell. “Are you _serious_?”

Donna presses her palm into Sebastian’s thigh, the intimate gesture stirring the tension in the room. “We’re worried for you, H.”

“So, what?” Harry scrubs weary hands across his face. “You’re what? _Warning me off_ Louis? Is that what this is?” Sebastian and Donna remain guiltily quiet and Harry scoffs. “If … Is that why you’ve come together? Two’s better than one and hey! Maybe Harry won’t have a _fucking_ breakdown, if we’re both here to see him, right?” He shoos them, and to his surprise they both stand up.

“Like, I know that I scared you guys after-- after Dominic. Alright. I know that. But-- This thing with Louis isn’t like Dominic. He doesn’t have a secret fiancé, for one thing! And like…” Harry sighs deeply. “I don’t even know if it’s going to be anything. We’ve been out together _twice_ , okay. And maybe, yeah, maybe it’ll turn out to be something but maybe it won’t.”

Honestly, it’s a wonder the rest of the villa hasn’t heard them. “And refuckinggardless of whether Louis is leaving in a week or not, I’m still going to want to snog him and I’m not going to stop just because you two have some sort of saviour complex!”

Donna smiles sadly down at Harry, mouthing an apology, and Sebastian scratches over the stubble on his jaw. “We’re only looking out for you, Harry.”

“Sebastian, just-- Please trust me. If it ends badly you can be the first to say you told me so but-- But just let me have this.” His throat is tight, a thick ball of hurt floating somewhere over his windpipe.

Sebastian gives him a soft smile before he closes the door behind himself. Harry sinks heavily back into his mattress and doesn’t cry.

He’ll talk to Louis today. Sort out whatever this is between them.

 ---

 

Except, by the time Harry has washed the conversation off him, sought out something to wear that’s at least half clean - he makes a note to do the washing - and made his way reluctantly downstairs, there’s a list of jobs pinned to the chest freezer.

He bolts down a breakfast of muesli and what’s left in the pottle of yoghurt (add that to the grocery list) and stuffs the list in the back pocket of his jeans with only a mild grumble. Harry is efficient, but even superman couldn’t do half the island’s DIY chores in less than a couple of hours. The sun is high above the horizon by the time Harry returns to the villa.

He finds Louis sat at the bar with Niall and Liam, laughing and sipping something fruity and red.

“Hiya.” Liam says, looking up. Louis turns to peer over his shoulder, and his face lights up when he sees Harry. It quickly settles into forced nonchalance though, and that just won’t do.

Harry steals the stool closest to Louis, and leans forward on one elbow, fingers tracing over the silhouette of Achilles. “Buy you a drink?” he jokes. He snakes his foot out to tap Louis’ ankle, and the man smiles softly at him. Something about it’s not quite right - there’s not enough snark, not enough of an edge or… or anything, really. It’s emotionless.

Harry feels his forced cheeriness dim.

Niall, bless him, cuts through the tension. “Reckon you could buy me a pint if you’re asking.” He winks. All of the tension drains from the courtyard, and Louis rolls his eyes at Harry; jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Niall and shakes his head.

“He’s had three already, pretty sure. I wouldn’t, if you know what’s good for you.” His eyes are lit up, he looks normal again. Harry’s fingers twitch at his sides. He smiles.

“Well. I was heading over to the olive farm, so…” He swallows the words lingering at the back of his tongue, words poised to ask Louis what he wants to be, what he wants to turn this tentative _thing_ between them into. But life’s taught Harry that tentative things are best left untampered with, left to grow on their own and turn into blossom trees or fade to scrubbery. He slips off the stool.

Louis drains the last of his drink, and waggles a hand at Harry. “Hey, mind if I come with? Not seen olive bushes before.”

Harry doesn’t try to hide his smile with his teeth, lets his tongue peek out. He nods. “They’re trees.”

Louis kicks out at him, strokes down his side to sooth the action. “Whatever, Greece boy. Same diff.”

Harry loops an arm around his waist and Louis tips into his side. “Tom-ateo, tom-ahto?”

Louis nods sharply, fly away hairs tickling at the bare skin under Harry’s arm. “Summat like that, yeah.” His smile is sharp, and Harry reckons that talking to Louis can wait.

 (x)

 

Harry’s hand is soft and warm. A little rough, too. _Working hands_ , Louis thinks as he swings their arms together; big, strong working hands. He bites his lip around a smile, and Harry sends a quiet smile down to him. Louis swallows around the feeling in his chest, a feeling that there’s something magical happening. But...

But he’s read the stories - he knows what happens when mortals see gods in their true form. Harry seems too good to be true, like looking at him too much might blind Louis, turn him to stardust, never to be seen again. That’s why Zeus always shows up as a goose or a wolf in myths. Of course, Zeus then usually did a lot of raping and destroying of people’s lives. Even so.

Louis thinks back to his conversation with Sebastian from the morning.

_The man had come up beside Louis in the kitchen, talking about how happy Harry seemed after their date the day before. Louis had blushed, concentrated on scrubbing his plate clean, and made a failed effort not to read too much into Sebastian’s comment. Like how Harry might be so happy because he wants… Louis isn’t quite sure what he hopes Harry wants. The same as Louis, anyway._

_Anyway, Sebastian had placed a firm hand on Louis’ shoulder and he’d looked up from the sink, unsure all of a sudden._

_“Louis.”_

_“That’s me.”_

_“Look…” And then Sebastian had told Louis about Dominic. About how he’d introduced Harry to this island and to all the people on it; about how everyone thought Harry was his fiancé; about how happy Harry had been._

_About how Harry had woken up one morning to find that Dominic had left. Up and left, telling only his aunt where he was going. Back to the mainland, to Skiathos, to marry his fiancé. His not-Harry fiancé. And then he had told Louis about the weeks, the months, he’d said with glossy eyes, that it took for Harry to move on, to start living properly again._

_“You can’t be another Dominic, Louis.” Sebastian’s eyes were firm, steely. “I cannot pick Harry up again, not like that. Okay?”_

_And Louis had nodded. He will not do that to Harry. He’s leaving on a boat in a week, for fuck’s sake._

“Hey, Harry?” He twists their hands until his thumb is pressing gently against Harry’s pulse point.

“Yeah?” _God_ , he’s so open. So sincere and trusting and _good_. Louis forces himself to continue, to forestall hurting Harry.

He just really, _really_ doesn’t want to do this. “I-- We’re just--" he cuts himself off, stretches up on tiptoes to press his mouth to Harry’s. “This is fun, right? Like, us? It’s fun?” He phrases it so Harry can veto it, can shake his head and tell Louisno.

Harry lets Louis’ hand fall from his grip and for a moment, Louis thinks he’s going to. Thinks he’s going to pick Louis up and tell him he wants _more than just fun_. Instead, he nods. “Yeah.” His voice shakes, just a tiny tremor of a thing that would be hardly noticeable if Louis wasn’t hanging onto his every action, searching for… for _something_. “Yeah, just fun.”

“It would-- it might be different if, you know.” Judging by the look on Harry’s face, he doesn’t know. “If I wasn’t leaving. When the boat’s finished.” Harry nods as if it’s obvious, as if Louis is ridiculous for clarifying when only seconds before Harry had looked so lost Louis wished he could draw him a map home. “Because after Dominic I don’t want to-- I don’t want to do that to you.”

Harry freezes up at Louis’ words, his spine goes stiff and his nostril flares - a ridiculous little quirk that Louis is hopelessly endeared to. “Who told you?”

Louis mouths at the shape of words but he can’t make himself say anything. Instead he stares at the way Harry’s shoulders have gone tight and defensive.

“Louis. Who told you about Dominic.” It’s not a question anymore, Harry’s voice is tremulous, sounds like it might snap if Louis says anything but the truth.

“Sebastian.” He stretches forward to touch Harry but he steps away from Louis’ hand.

“Fuck.”

“But only because he’s protecting you--"

“ _Protecting_ me?” Harry spits. “I’m twenty three years old. I can take care of myself.” His face shutters in on itself, green eyes losing their flame and turning sad instead. “I can pick my own…” Harry’s quiet words trail off, and this time Louis _does_ step forward to touch Harry.

He wraps his fingers as far around Harry’s bicep as they’ll reach. “Your own what, H?”

“Nothing.” Harry takes several deep, calming breaths, then looks up to meet Louis’ eyes. “Do you still want to see the olives?” His eyes are clear again but the smile on his face is forced, nothing like the real one Louis’ grown used to.

“Nah.” Louis drops his hand to link his fingers with Harry’s. “I’d rather go to the beach, I think.”

That draws a proper grin from Harry, and he dips his head to press a kiss to Louis’ waiting mouth. Louis lets him, and doesn’t protest even when Harry’s reckless driving nearly propels them off the side off the cliff. Okay, he does protest, but only because it makes Harry turns and grin across at him.

Only because it feels like more than _‘just fun_.’

 ---

 

In the days leading up to the party, everyone is too busy to pay much attention to anything except the task in front of them. Sebastian and Donna’s wedding follows quick on the heels of the hen night, which means that the stress of _two_ parties is condensed into six days. The bridal party keep apologising to Donna, promising that they would have held it earlier if they’d realised there’d be a wedding four days later.

Donna doesn’t mind though, brushes off their apologies with a calm smile. She says it helps keep her mind off things, stops her from stressing herself out. Sebastian, on the other hand, is running through the villa, being an utter pain in the arse, and has been for days. He keeps finding things to do, things to fix, arrangements to make, seating plans to revise. They’ve all given up on telling him it doesn’t matter where everyone sits as long as there are enough seats.

In the end, it’s Elena who gets him to stand still for more than two seconds - clobbering him around the head and thrusting a monkfish into his hands. “Sebastian. Get the meat out of the heat. Make yourself useful and,” she snatches a power drill from under his arm, “stop getting in the way. Harry and Nikkos can do it. You have a wife to look after!”

Suitably told off, Sebastian disappears inside to get the fish somewhere cool.

The good thing about the chaos is that no one pays any attention to Louis and Harry. Yesterday Louis had taken Harry out to the _Persephone_ since it was finally safe to board, and they’d spent most of the day just lazing on the deck. It was an off day for repair work, so they’d taken a picnic and had the whole boat to themselves.

The day before that Harry had let Louis paint some of the mural in the goat house with him. It had gone well until Louis had realised that throwing paint at Harry was more entertaining than painting the wall. They’d gotten into a tussle - Louis wearing an old, holey t-shirt of Harry’s - and had ended up in a tangle of arms, legs, and paintbrushes on the wooden floor.

Today Harry is out actually doing his job and Louis is halfway up a ladder, breaking into Harry’s room. Technically, it’s not breaking and entering so much as it is sneaking in. Louis had broken the shutters on his first day, before he’d even met Harry, so there’s nowhere to go from that but up. Up as in up a ladder he convinced a lovely local who was meant to be hanging fairy lights to hold.

“Are you sure it’s stable?” The man in question calls up to him. Louis waves a hand over his shoulder. He’s fine. He’s got this in the bag.

“I’m fine, thank you!” He wobbles slightly but he thinks he manages to cover it well, wiggling his bum to cover up his pounding heart. “No worries!” Anyway, he tells himself, it’s only a few more rungs before he’s at hip level with Harry’s window, and then he can abandon the ladder altogether. He’ll be taking the conventional route on the way out.

After a few more minutes of precarious teetering and dubious ladder safety, followed by plenty of arse shaking to prove he isn’t terrified for his life (he is), Louis manages to clamber through the open window and into Harry’s bedroom. Granted, it’s not his most glamorous entrance - his flailing legs send a shutter flying and knock the ladder over backwards - but he makes it unscathed and that’s the main thing.

He does poke his head out of the window to check that the nice man wasn’t hit by the ladder, and once he’s sure that there’s no damage done (other than a slightly shattered potted plant) he resumes his mission.

“Just call me James bloody Bond,” Louis congratulates himself whilst rifling through Harry’s wardrobe.

Louis has been nicking bits and pieces from Harry’s drawers since he arrived, but he’s only just discovered the treasure of Harry’s wardrobe. Nikkos had mentioned it as an aside, and Louis has been _desperately_ curious.

It’s not the reason Louis is in Harry’s room while he’s out, but he can’t help having a nose about. Who knows what he might find. It’s pretty interesting - not whips and swords and chain mail like he’d pondered over - but close enough.

There’s hanger upon hanger of showy patterned shirts - soft and flowy, and all looking like they cost half the villa each. Louis pulls a couple out for closer examination, and finds that he really wants to see Harry in them. The ugly shirt from Skiathos is one thing, something with a YSL label is another altogether.

His attention is caught by a simple black suit hanging in one corner, and he puts the shirt back. Upon closer inspection, he sees that it’s also incredibly expensive - looks bespoke, even! - and comes with a cummerbund. Louis feels his heart fly out his ears at the picture of Harry wearing a velvet cummerbund - sitting low and snug on his hips.

A noise from the street below snaps his focus back, and he closes the wardrobe. He hopes more than anything that Harry wears the suit to the wedding. Although, maybe better not. Louis wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself.

Harry’s bed is just as comfortable as it had been that first night. Louis’s missed it, if he’s being honest. It feels nice to be surrounded by the familiar smell of Harry, the warm spice of his cologne and the intimate musk of _boy_. Louis draws the duvet over his head and breathes out a long, deep sigh.

He wiggles his toes into the sheets while he waits and tries not to think about Harry lying in this same position - flat on his back in bed, breathing heavier and wetter, skin flushed as he… Louis shuts off his brain in case Harry walks in on him with a boner in his bed.

As much as he’d broken into Harry’s room with a plan, Louis doesn’t quite know _what_ that plan is. He’s waiting for it to hit him, waiting for inspiration to strike, and waiting in Harry’s bed seems like the perfect place for it. And wait he does. For at least quarter of an hour until Harry walks in the door of his room and sits down on the end of his bed. Right on top of Louis’ feet.

Harry shrieks, Louis kicks out, Harry shrieks again, and Louis pulls the covers off his face. Harry visibly relaxes.

“I thought you were a burglar!”

Louis wriggles so he’s half-slouching against the headboard and shrugs. “I mean, technically. I climbed in the window.”

Harry’s eyes bug out, looking from Louis to the window. “That’s-- You broke the shutters again. But that’s dangerous! Whose ladder did you use?”

Louis stretches his leg to poke Harry in the thigh. “A broken window’s a small price to pay for having this,” he runs his hands slowly down his chest, grinning at Harry, “in your bed, don’cha think?”

Instead of rolling his eyes like Louis expected - Harry does a lot of fond eye rolling around him, he’s noticed - he flushes and looks down at his knees. Louis abandons his covers, and crawls down the mattress to hook his chin over Harry’s shoulder.

“Okay, Chief?” He kisses Harry’s neck. Harry mumbles an answer into his hands. Louis drapes himself across his shoulders. He’s good at smothering people until they talk. “Can’t hear you like that.”

Harry sighs, but turns his head to look at Louis. “I can’t _believe_ Sebastian.”

“Babe,” Louis smooths his hands down Harry’s arms, wraps his fingers around his elbows. “That was days ago.”

Harry shakes his head. His hair tickles Louis’ cheek. “Gave me another lecture in the kitchen. Like I’m thirteen and you’re the first boyfriend that’s lasted more than two lessons.”

Louis shifts so he’s got one leg either side of Harry’s waist. He’s softer than he looks, Harry. All lean muscle and soft hips, only sharp edged around his knees and elbows. Louis presses his face into the back of his neck, just where his hairline begins. “I’m a sticker, me. Once you get me in bed there’s no getting rid of me, I’m afraid.”

Even though they both know how wrong he is, Harry laughs. “Don’t know about you, but I never got my girlfriends in bed in Year Eight.”

Louis snickers into Harry’s back to hide the irrational jealousy towards faceless thirteen year old girls. “Slow worker, were ya? I had three at once, one time.”

Harry is quiet for a beat too long and then, “Were you all in the sick bay, then?”

Louis smacks him, but it’s tender; his hand lingers long after the sting wears off. Harry leans his full weight against Louis and he forgets all about any plans he may have had brewing.

 ---

 

The day of the hen party begins with the injured drone of bagpipes. Louis wraps his arms tighter around Harry’s waist and watches with mild curiosity as Niall sits bolt upright in his chair. “Jesus Christ, you’re murdering that!”

“Just Nikkos will do.”

Niall is laughing while he wrestles the pipes from Nikkos’ arms. “Gizzus a geez.”

“You’re _Irish_.”

“So?” Niall shrugs, tucks the bag under his arm. “You’re Greek. All the more reason to let me have a go.” His cheeks puff out with exertion, and the pipes make a drawn out squeak - like a cow running out of air. “Actually, the Irish gave the Scots the bagpipes.”

“What?” Liam swings his feet up onto the table, balancing his chair on two legs. “Walked right up to William Wallace and handed them over, did they?” He clears his throat and Harry shifts in Louis’ lap. “Sure, dere ya go. A noice pare of poipes an’ a sack o’ shite an’ all. If ya gizit a squeeze she’ll see ya roight inta de arms o’ yer missus. Have yer wan flockin’ in an’ all.”

“That was appalling, lad.” Louis manages through his laughter. Harry buries his face in Louis’ neck and shakes with his amusement, wet smile pressed tightly against his skin. It all feels are too intimate for _‘just fun.’_

Niall’s second attempt at playing the bagpipes is only marginally more successful than the first, but it draws Louis away from his thoughts on the soft give of Harry’s waist.

Josh demands that it’s his turn next, and then Sebastian and Nikkos degenerate into bickering over who gets the next go. Elena cuts it all short by emerging from the kitchen shouting something about having bought the pipes to keep idiots away. Harry takes his face out of Louis’ shoulder to announce that clearly they’re just as faulty as Liam’s attempt at an accent.

Of course it sets them all off again, and Elena has to physically pull the bagpipes from Sebastian. That’s how Donna finds them - seated around the big table (or in Sebastian’s case: lying on the cobbles reaching hopelessly after Elena’s retreating back) in tears of laughter. She simply rolls her eyes and kicks her fiancé, tells him that they’ve still got wedding plans to make.

Louis pulls Harry closer, subconsciously envious of the ease with which they so clearly love each other. He knows he’s being ridiculous; Harry’s got more than enough history which means that he won’t let himself love someone who is going to sail away. Louis _knows_ that. He also knows that you can’t love someone after less than two weeks. It’s silly.

He and Harry are fun. Donna and Sebastian are getting _married_. The most Louis has is a boat he doesn’t even have a claim to.

 ---

 

Louis doesn’t know why it’s only occurred to him now. Ten minutes before they’re all meant to be meeting in the communal lounge. He straightens up from tying his shoe and stares at Niall.

“If it’s a hen’s party… Are we even allowed to _go_?”

Niall barely even pauses from buttoning his shirt. “‘Course. We were invited.” He turns side on to the mirror, runs his hands over the tops of his thighs. “This look okay?” Louis makes a vague noise, head once again hovering between his calves as he fusses with his laces. “Y’ can’t tell it’s not mine?”

You kind of can - the shirt sits loose around Niall’s waist - but he fills out the shoulders well enough for it not to matter. “These shoes are fucking murder.”

“How’d you even manage to find them? You weren’t even wearing shoes when we landed, were you?” Niall is bent close to the mirror, fussing with his hair.

“Landed? When we crashed, more like,” Louis taps his toes together once, and stands up. “Harry knew someone who was my size. They’re a bit tight. Shall we be off?” He carries on before Niall can ask any invasive questions. He’s taken too much of an interest in how Louis spends his time lately, sending Harry odd looks across the breakfast table and making comments he shouldn’t. Louis needs a better friend.

One such candidate meets them outside their room. “Alright lads?” Liam’s freshly shaven and holding a bottle of wine.

“That’s for us then? Pregaming are we, Payno?” Louis slings an arm around Liam’s shoulders.

“No!” Liam holds the bottle far out of Louis’ reach. “It’s for the bride.”

Louis is still hollering taunts into Liam’s ear when they arrive in the living room. Harry had clearly gotten to his feet when he’d heard them approaching, and Louis is caught breathless at his appearance.

Silver, glittery boots; skin tight black jeans that make his thighs look as though they’ve been poured in; a sheer peach coloured shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Harry looks like Aphrodite personified.

Louis takes in the exposed tattoos, the way Harry’s chest expands while he breathes and thinks, _no._ _Not Aphrodite. Maybe one of her supposed sons - Eros, or Cupid._ Or maybe neither. Maybe Harry doesn’t need supernatural lineage to look otherworldly. Maybe he is so entrancing _because_ he’s mortal, because he’s flawed, because he can’t morph into a man who has everything.

Louis’ mind jumps to the story of Apollo and the mortal prince Hyacinthus. Of how Apollo, while giving his prince everything he asked for, inadvertently killed him. He scattered the clouds with his passion, and he smited his lover with the same breath.

But no. Louis already lives on a boat with a name pulled from mythology, he doesn’t need to start applying it to his life. If there’s anything he learnt from his degree, it’s that myths are nothing more than stories; legends to tell your children before bedtime, not things to live your life by.

He detaches himself from Liam, and goes to Harry. Harry who’s beaming down at him and _also_ holding a bottle of wine. Louis eyes the neat red bow at its neck.

“So did me and Niall miss the memo?” he demands.

Harry presses into his side. “We can tell them this is from both of us.”

Louis likes the sound of that. Niall can fend for himself.

 (x)

 

When Harry gets tipsy, he gets handsy.

When he gets _drunk_ , he gets horny. Right now, he’s one glass of expensive champagne away from ignoring everyone around him and just rubbing off on Louis’ thigh. Right in the middle of the courtyard. To an ABBA song.

Louis’ nose brushes the line of his neck and Harry thinks, _I’m really glad you came_.

“ _...you know the rules, you know the game!_ ” The roar of the party thrums under Harry’s skin and he palms at the soft swell of Louis’ arse. It’s intoxicating; the smell of Louis’ skin, sweet with whatever he’s been drinking all night, pleasantly salty with sweat; the thrum and lull of the dancers around them; the steady, overwhelming beat of the music.

 _Take it now or leave it!_ The crowd chants, in time with Harry’s own thoughts.

 _Now is all we get!_ Harry pulls Louis tighter against him.

_Nothing promised--_

Louis tilts his chin upward, a challenge. Harry’s heart spins in his chest.

\-- _no regrets._

“Louis.” He says, barely a murmur, almost lost to the crowd.

If Louis moves forward even an inch, they’ll be kissing.

 _Ain’t no big decision_.

 _You know what to do_.

_La question c'est voulez-vous._

“Do you…” Harry dips closer to Louis, brushes his question against Louis’ lips, wet and inviting.

“I want to.” Louis says.

The mass of bodies around them goes mad with the chorus, girls dancing on tables, boys shouting _a-hah_ s! with an unabashedness they’d never have in the light of day, away from the lights, and the intoxicating mix of alcohol and undiluted happiness.

Harry grins and grabs Louis by the wrist, leads him from the middle of the courtyard to a quiet wall around the corner. Here, hidden from view and lit by the undulating light from the party, Harry can see a mirror of his own feelings on Louis’ face, the shadows playing over his cheekbones and down into the dip of his collar. Harry swallows around a rush of emotion and pushes his hips into the solid warmth of Louis.

“God-- I want to... Louis,” Harry has no idea how he got so lucky. He’s got a beautiful, wonderful man pressed up against him, and he’s pleasantly warm all over. “Fu-ck, can we…? There’s-- Do you wanna go to--” he stops to bite at Louis’ neck, “my room?

Louis nods hastily into his neck, breath warm and wet against Harry’s skin. Harry feels like he’s on fire, every nerve ending buzzing and his pulse close to the surface.

Harry gets impatient when they reach the living room. He spins Louis around, presses him up against the door frame and sucks his tongue into his mouth. Louis moans against Harry’s lips, squirms against his chest. His movements press his crotch against Harry’s thigh and Harry sucks in a harsh breath when he feels Louis pressed against him, warm and very notably hard.

He ducks down to mouth at Louis’ neck, uses it as an excuse to hoist Louis up off the ground. Louis’ thighs feel perfect, looped tight around Harry’s waist, his hands gripping at the hairs at the base of his neck. He’s laughing though, and no. He’s not meant to be laughing. That was sexy. Harry was being sexy.

“What?” He whines. His back is starting to twinge from holding his half-stooped position for so long, and he starts off up the stairs to his room, every step jolting electricity through Harry.

“You’re such a pornstar.” Louis presses his laughter to the shell of Harry’s ear and he grins harder.

“Yeah, I uh, I get that a lot actually.”

“ _Do_ you?” Louis teases, digging his fingers into Harry’s shoulders.

“Hard to believe, I know. But…” he shrugs. “What can y’ do?”

Louis taps at Harry’s cheek until he stops walking. “Could put me down?” He drags his teeth over Harry’s bottom lip.

Harry kisses back, three quick presses of his mouth. “Nah. Not ‘till ‘ve got you in bed.”

“Seem awfully sure of yourself, pornstar.”

Harry drops his hands to palm Louis’ arse, pushes their crotches together, and smirks. Louis shuts up. Well, for a while anyway.

He picks up again when Harry’s set him down on his bed. Harry makes quick work of their shirts, and has his hands on the button of Louis’ trousers before the other man can even think about de-trou-ing. “No, no wait, Mr. Impatient. You’ve gotta help me out of these shoes first.”

Harry sinks immediately to his knees and, because he’s ridiculous, presses tender, open mouthed kisses to Louis’ shins. He tugs gently on the laces of Louis’ shoes - the ones that have been driving him crazy all night. He’d complained about pinched toes about three minutes after he’d seen Harry, and he hasn’t stopped all night.

He takes Louis’ heel in one hand and uses the other to wiggle Louis out of the shoes. Except-- Except it won’t budge.

Louis stares down at him, eyes wide open. Harry clears his throat, presses the palm of his hand against his cock to relieve the pressure building against the zipper. “Right. We’ll just… um. Lie back?” Louis sinks back onto his elbows, cranes his neck to maintain eye contact with Harry. It’s all absurdly intimate. “And I’ll just…” Harry makes to undo his own trousers.

“I don’t think so!” Louis screeches. “If I have to keep mine on, you can wait your turn! ‘s your fault anyway.”

“Uhm?” Harry questions.

“ _You_ gave me these bloody shoes to borrow. It’s your fault our dicks are going to give up hope and fall off!”

Which is a bit extreme, really, but it gets Harry moving. He swings a leg over top of Louis’ and manoeuvres them until Louis’ shin is squeezed firmly between Harry’s thighs. With his back to Louis Harry can grab Louis’ foot with both hands and tug. Hard.

“This--” Louis huffs out a laugh, “--is ridiculous!”

Harry grins, bottom lip pulled into his mouth. He gives another heave and nearly sends himself flying across the room after Louis’ shoe. “One down…” He almost trips himself climbing across to Louis’ other leg. “Your feet stink,” he muses, fingers wriggling under the laces to loosen them a bit. Louis doesn’t reply, and when Harry checks over his shoulder, he’s got his flies open and his cock out.

It’s a very pretty cock. Harry’s mouth waters. His hips jolt forward with a particularly strong pull on Louis’ foot, but the shoe is refusing to budge. “Is this your bigger foot?”

“What sort of a--” Louis hisses and the muscles of his legs bunch up. Harry sort of hates him a little bit. “Sort of a question is that?”

“I know you’re wanking.” Harry is very much not bitter. It’s just that… Well, _he’d_ sort of wanted to be the first to get his hand around Louis.

“Is it making you hurry?” Louis sounds perversely hopeful, like he’d actually wagered on his shoe coming off faster if he was closer to coming.

“No.” Harry deadpans, giving a half arsed heave. It takes another couple of pulls before the shoe comes flying off, the force of it almost causing Harry to brain himself on Louis’ toes. Which wouldn’t be a fantastic end to the evening.

Rather than apologising or checking he’s alright, Louis clears his throat. “Does that mean you’re ready now?”

Harry swats at his dick, then ducks down to kiss it better.

 ---

 

After that, it just keeps happening. Harry makes Louis come twice that night, and then again the next morning - both of them sprawled out underneath the thin sheet of Harry’s bed, hands warm and lazy between each other's legs.

Louis rubs up against Harry in the kitchen when Nikkos is looking the other way, and brushes his toes along the inseam of Harry’s trousers under the breakfast table. Harry presses Louis against the mural in the goat house and draws his orgasm from him with one hand wormed between their bodies. When Louis’ breathing returns to normal and he does his pants back up, he’s got wet paint in his hair and along his back. He pays Harry back by sucking him off lying down on the deck of the _Persephone_.

Harry knows that this, whatever it is they’re doing, is more than just fooling around. There’s a look in Louis’ eyes every time Harry presses against him that proves it; a feeling deep in Harry’s chest that tells him it’s not _‘just fun’_.

He knows Louis had pinned that label on them, had interrupted Harry’s thoughts that ‘ _maybe this was it. Maybe he was falling again, maybe this time he had found something good,’_ the day at the olive farm. But Harry has spent far too much of his life listening to other people, and letting things play their course instead of actually taking action.

He wants to take action, this time. He doesn’t want to leave whatever there is between him and Louis up to the Fates, doesn’t want his life to be determined by others.

In the end, Louis forces his hand for him.

 ---

 

Harry is outside the room Louis and Niall share to deliver a message for Nikkos. It’s nothing to do with Louis for once, so it only stands to reason that it would end up being _all_ about Louis.

He is been just about to knock to the door when he hears Louis’ voice. Which in itself isn’t a shock. It _is_ his room after all. Until Harry hears what he’s saying.

“What are you going to do about your thing with Harry?” Niall asks. His voice is pitched low, as if he’s placating a small child. Harry supposes that it’s a fairly accurate descriptor for Louis at times - liable to unpredictable bursts of emotion.

“Why’re you being so fucking judgey, Niall?”

“I’m not--”

“Oh? And you and Nikkos are going to run off and get married too, are ya?” _Married too_ , Harry tries very hard not to let his heart skip at that, but it’s hard not to.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Louis. Me and Nik are just hooking up,” _Huh._ Harry hadn’t known Nikkos went that way. And right under his nose, too. He’d have to have words with him about mutual honesty. “You are Harry are so fucking codependent, I swear.”

He _knows_ that he shouldn’t eavesdrop, that he should back away and forget he ever heard this. But-- But he agrees with Niall, damnit, and he wants to know what Louis thinks.

“Nah,” Louis says, casual as anything. “Me and H are just fun.”

 _Just fun_. If Harry had a pound for every time his heart sunk when he heard those words, he’d be rich. He’d be rich _and_ he wouldn’t have much of a heart left. He wants to be sick, because for all Louis’ bravado and assurances that they _are_ just fun… Harry had thought that _maybe_ , just maybe, Louis might have felt the same as him.

Niall sighs heavily, echoing Harry’s thoughts. "You know you're more than that, Tommo."

There is a long, drawn out silence before Louis says anything. “Yeah but--” Harry waits for the final blow, for Louis to say he’s got too much baggage, or he’s boring, or even just that he doesn’t think about Harry like that. What Louis says instead almost blows Harry’s cover. “Not for him."

Harry’s got both hands firmly plastered over his mouth, keeping in an elated laugh. _‘Yeah but not for him’_ is worlds apart from _‘yeah but I just don’t think it could work’_ or any variation that had circled his head in Louis’ pause.

He wants to rush in there and pick Louis up, swing him around and around, and kiss him senseless. He wants to shout at him _‘yes! Yes, for me you brilliant bloody idiot!’_ but he doesn’t. He’s going to be subtle and romantic, and he’s going to make sure that Louis doesn’t regret his feelings for Harry for one second.

It’s got to be something quick - Louis is leaving after the wedding - and Harry would have asked Louis to be his plus one anyway but still. Having Louis as his _date_ to his best friend’s wedding is an entirely different ball game to Louis being his plus-one-who-he-kisses-but-it’s-definitely-nothing-more.

When he’s sure he isn’t going to betray himself and make a noise, Harry turns on his heel and walks back downstairs to the kitchen. He can’t stop himself from grinning.

 ---

 

“Can I get you anything, _theía_?” Harry hovers above the chest freezer in the kitchen.

Elena looks up from her crossword, shakes her head. “Only your company,” she says. Harry knows she’s got a follow-up, and he’s right. “Come sit yourself down. Tell me about you and this boy?”

He blushes furiously, still sometimes struggles to shake the guilt of forcing her to ostracise her nephew. _‘It’s not your fault, Harry,’_ she’s told him time and time again. _‘Dominic made his decision, and cheaters never prosper, my dear.’_ Elena would pull him into a tight hug, smelling of home cooking and lavender, and kiss his cheek. _‘I’d much rather have you, anyway. He never used to visit much.’_ Even so, it’s odd: living with the aunt of his ex-boyfriend.

“Well,” Harry pulls up a chair next to her. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” He doesn’t know if she wants the details, or if she is just seeking confirmation - that Harry really _is_ leaving Dominic in his past.

“Start with the truth.” Blunt as ever, then.

Harry swallows, mouth dry. He rubs his hands over the grain of the table. “Louis and I are--” _What are they,_ exactly? He can’t very well tell her they’re just fun, because it’s not that. He can’t say they’re boyfriends either, because they aren’t that. “I like Louis,” he settles on. “A lot.”

Elena’s smile creases her face and she takes Harry’s hands in her own, rough thumbs rubbing circles into the bones of his wrists. “Good,” she says. “Good. Have you told him?” She’s perceptive, Harry will give her that.

“Not-- Not exactly?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Elena breaks away from English, Greek syllables weighty and concerned on the table between them.

Harry sighs, looks down at their hands. “It means I don’t know what to tell him.” He’s dodging the real question, and he knows it. Elena frowns and clicks her tongue at him.

“What do you _want_ to tell him?” And isn’t that the million dollar question. Harry’s strength is art, in pictures and imagery, not words. He takes long enough as it is just placing a grocery order, let alone trying to pick the right words to tell Louis.

He lets a thick silence hang over the kitchen while he thinks about it. “That I think I might love him.” He bites his lip, and amends, “one day.”

Elena rises from her seat to kiss Harry’s forehead. She pats his cheeks with firm hands, eyes soft and glossy. “Go find him.”

Harry goes.

 ---

 

Harry finds Louis in the old goat house.

It had taken him ages to find him; he’d looked all throughout the villa until one of the Americans mentioned they’d seen Louis down at the harbour. Harry had taken the Jeep, Fleetwood Mac playing loud through the speakers from the last time he and Louis had gone for a drive, but at the jetty everyone said Louis had left the _Persephone_ in a hurry.

No one, especially Louis, does anything on Kalokairi in a hurry, so Harry had been worried. He had driven a little faster than he perhaps should have on the way back to the villa, and _still_ he couldn’t find anyone who said they’d seen Louis.

The goat house was his last resort.

Harry sees Louis before Louis sees him. Louis is stood facing away from the door, hands tucked into his jean pockets, staring up at the mural Harry has almost finished. There’s Apollo in his chariot, leading the sun to its rightful position at the left side of the wall; there’s Poseidon overseeing the Mediterranean joining with the Aegean; and birds, fawns and nymphs dancing from one scene to the next, joining the mural together.

Louis hasn’t seen it since Harry painted Aphrodite drawing water from a fountain at the centre, her head dipped in an attempt to hide a coy smile.

Harry clears his throat so he doesn’t startle Louis. “Hi.”

“What is she doing?” Louis doesn’t move, neither to greet Harry nor to point.

“It’s um-- Aphrodite’s Fountain.” Harry explains. “People say this was once supposed to be the er-- the site of it. And that if you drank the water, you’d find love and like, eternal happiness.”

Louis doesn’t respond and Harry feels a bit silly. The original plan had always included the fountain, but Louis had definitely been Harry’s muse for the creation - Aphrodite’s eyes sparkle with the same colour of blue as Louis’. All that’s left to complete is the right side of the mural - Aeolus breathing the winds into the world, stirring Poseidon’s waves and buoying up the sun.

It’s Harry’s favourite thing that he’s created.

“In fact,” he hastens to fill the silence between them, “Seb told me the crack in the courtyard might actually be because of an underground spring! Wouldn’t it be ace if we were standing on the Fountain the _whole time_? And like, drinking the water, bathing in it--” he gasps. “What if we’ve been doing our washing up in Aphrodite’s Fountain?”

His giggle breaks off when Louis finally turns around, face grim.

 (x)

 

“Louis?” Harry’s voice cracks, takes Louis’ stomach with it. He’d gone from so happy, babbling about the goddess of love and one of the only myths Louis hasn’t heard of, to the very picture of worry. Louis has already dragged this conversation out for long enough. It’s now or never.

“I’m leaving, Harry.”

“I-- You are?” Harry pales instantly.

“Liam’s got the boat working.” He shrugs. It’s so inadequate.

“He’s-- that’s great, Lou! Really.” Harry forces a smile onto his face. “Will you be able to stay for the--”

“We’re leaving tomorrow. While the weather’s nice and that.”

“Right. Well. Good luck. Bon voyage?”

“Is that the Greek?” Louis is trying his hardest to make the best of a really shitty situation.

“No--”

“We aren’t leaving until ten so you’ve got plenty of time to learn,” Louis is really, really cocking this up. Harry’s face is doing the grimacy thing it does when he’s forcing a smile, and his hands are fidgeting uselessly at his side. _When did Louis come to know so much about this man? Why does he care so much?_ He should be glad to be getting home, home to see his mum and his brother, and his sisters. But...

Harry rocks back on his heels. “I’m actually just gonna go check that the….thing...is, yeah--” Louis wishes he had words to make Harry stop, to turn around and come back, wishes he had something to say that would wipe the wounded expression off his face, but he doesn’t. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets and watches Harry leave. Because he’s a coward, and because he doesn’t have a proper reason for leaving.

The thing is… The thing is, Louis doesn’t even know why he got on the boat in the first place. Well he does, actually, but it isn’t a proper reason. Not one Harry wants to hear. Deserves to hear. The truth is that he got a degree in Classical Studies at university which he used for nothing since no one employs a person based on their ability to quote _The Iliad_.

He worked a job he tolerated at the local B&Q, and when a fit boy had approached Louis at the counter and asked if he could hang an advert up, Louis had jumped at the chance to get out of Doncaster. Louis had no experience with boats, but the advertisement had been poorly designed and colourful, and something about it had attracted Louis.

Josh seemed to think that he knew a fair deal, Liam had apparently been in a sailing club of all fucking things, and Niall had lived in Ireland for most of his life. Fishing ran in Irish blood. Faeries and Selkies and skin shedding seals who turned into women...or… Or they were the same thing.

So Louis had kissed his family, packed a bag, and got over his seasickness after about a week and a half of throwing up every breakfast Niall made him.

It’s not a good enough story to tell Harry, not when Louis is leaving him to sail away on a boat he’s not emotionally invested in. It would be different, perhaps, if fishing ran in Louis’ blood. But it doesn’t. Louis is just as bad as Dominic - if not worse, because even a secret fiancé is better than running away on a boat named after the wife of Hades.

He watches Harry leave and he tries to remember that it’s for the best, that by doing this, he’s avoiding hurting Harry in the long run.

Funny how it doesn’t feel good or decent. It feels like a cop out, and Louis is a coward. Even more of a coward than Paris of Troy - the man who launched one thousand ships; stole another man's wife, and started a war.

It's a good way to explain the feeling in Louis’ chest - like there are ten thousand Trojan soldiers waging war on his insides. It's worsened by the fact that he knows how the war ends: with the death of a hero, and the sack of a city. If Paris was the biggest coward in history, what does that make Louis?

“Alright, mate?” Liam’s voice startles Louis out of his thoughts, and he plasters a grin on his face.

“Yep! Ready to be off, me.” With his chest still tight, Louis turns and walks out of the goat house. “You all packed?”

 (x)

 

It was naïve, Harry knows this now. The thoughts and dreams of adolescent, that a boy might drop everything for you; that you could keep wearing rose tinted glasses and reality could never reach you as long as the two of you were together.

When he’d run out of the goat house, Harry hadn’t felt much of anything. Mostly, more than hurt and confusion and a little bit of anger, there was the nagging voice in the back of his head. _I told you so_. It sounded a lot like Sebastian.

Now, standing in the middle of the pantry, up to his knees in _stuff_ , and methodically sorting through boxes of spices, Harry lets the pain hit. It comes head on, much like the storm that had brought Louis to Kalokairi, to Harry; unexpected and brutal in its force. He tucks his head into his chest, shoulders folding in on themselves and chest aching with the weight of holding back tears.

It’s like Dominic all over again, except Louis had actually told Harry he was leaving. That should make it better, and maybe in a few days, when the initial hurt’s worn off, it will. But now, clutching a worn cardboard box of paprika, Harry can’t see anything beyond the weightlessness inside of him.

It feels like he’s untethered, like he could fly away in the smallest breath of wind and float, forever, across the ocean; never touching land again, alone with himself and this awful heartbreak until he inevitably deflates and gets eaten up by fish that men like Louis will one day catch. And eat. A long, drawn out life of weightlessness as he drifts towards an inevitable expiration.

 _God_. He’d been going to tell Louis he _loved him_.

Harry had overheard Louis telling Niall it was _mutual_. He would have grinned and kissed Harry, sharp teeth and clinging fingers, and they could have made it work.

There’s WiFi on board the _Persephone_ , for Liam to keep contact with his girlfriend. Harry had had visions of Skype calls – himself taking a break from restoring the roof of the goat house, or perhaps lying tucked up in bed, pulling the duvet up under his nose as if he could smell Louis’ deodorant against the linen. And of Louis, huddled over against the wind, nose red and eyes smiling; of his messy hair and the poky kitchen, Josh and Liam goofing off in the background, Niall preparing dinner just out of shot…

None of that is going to happen now. There’ll be no tales of freak storms and potential mermaid sightings, no stories about what Elena’s done, what additions Harry has made to the goathouse. None of it. Because Louis is leaving in the morning, and Harry is standing in the middle of the pantry hoping desperately that the monotony of it will drag his mind out of his head.

In the end it’s Nikkos who pulls Harry out of his thoughts. “Finished your speech yet?”

Harry sets down the outdated can of evaporated milk. He’s had it drilled into his by his mother that expiry dates on cans always have margin for error, but seven years is a bit too much of a risk. “Almost. Got that sentence sorted, at least.”

Nikkos makes a congratulatory noise in the back of his throat. “Brilliant.” Harry has been working on his best man’s speech, enlisting Nikkos’ help to straighten out the details of the time Sebastian had thrown himself off the jetty along with his fishing rod. When all Harry does is shrug, Nikkos frowns. “What’s going on? You’ve been bouncing off the walls about this speech for days!”

Harry decides that getting it over with is the best method, ripping off the plaster as it were. “Louis is leaving. Tomorrow.”

“ _Pfwoor_ ,” Nikkos pinches his lips together. “So you--?”

“I just found out.”

“At least he didn’t…”

“I know. Can tell Sebastian he’s not another Dominic.”

Nikkos rolls his eyes derisively. “Yeah, but Dominic was a bastard.”

 _Yeah_ , Harry thinks. _That’s the difference._

 (x)

 

Louis leaves Kalokairi much as he arrived.

This time Louis has a small plastic bag with what few things he accumulated in the two weeks on the island. Mainly, it’s his toiletries and underwear. There’s also one of Harry’s head scarves, but Louis is refusing to acknowledge it. Nicking Harry’s things would make him pathetic. If there’s one thing Louis is not, it’s pathetic.

Slightly miserable, yes. Downtrodden, absolutely! But pathetic? No.

It seems Niall would beg to differ. “Are you goin’ t’ keep staring off into the distance for the rest of the trip?”

Louis glances briefly up at him. Niall’s shoulders are hunched against the wind. “Was planning to, yes.”

“You realise it’s going to take us _at least_ three days. To get home? Eight, if we’re really unlucky.”

Louis usually loves how forthright Niall is. Now though, he’s not loving it so much. “Niall. I would really appreciate it if you’d fuck off.”

“I’ll just leave this here then,” Niall pats Louis’ shoulder companionably. “Captain’s orders.”

Louis looks down, and it’s a bottle of cider. He turns around on himself to stare Liam down, finds him perched on the control panel just inside the cabin, looking far too concerned to be healthy. He ought to do this more often - break people’s hearts and leave islands out of the blue. The _Persephone_ has never before carried decent alcohol. _Liam_ has certainly never offered it before dinner time.

He gives Liam a small nod, turns back to the sea. He watches the waves break just below him, gentle licks against the boat’s hull, and thinks that if there were any such thing as mermaids, they’d live here.

If his thoughts take the shape of softly tanned men with green, green eyes and heartbreaking smiles, he doesn’t give them a name. He certainly doesn’t startle at the thought of Harry dipping and diving through the waves breaking against the hull under his feet, body long and lean and breathtakingly naked. No. He sits there, thinking about mermaids and Selkies and the difference between them until the sun leaks its pinks and oranges into the water and Josh yells at him that dinner’s ready.

Stomach full and warm, Louis has trouble falling asleep in his bunk. The narrow berth seems even tighter now that he’s had a taste for what sleeping beside someone feels like. He wriggles around for what feels like hours, trying to find a position comfortable enough to drift off in. Eventually, he gives in and digs around for the bag stashed at the bottom of his mattress, hidden under the duvet like contraband. It doesn’t take long for him to unearth Harry’s head scarf.

Louis falls asleep to the familiar smell of Harry, much like his first night on Kalokairi - surrounded by the comforting smell of washing powder and Harry’s cologne. His heart aches, but he doesn’t cry.

 ---

 

Niall is fiercely stubborn when he sets his heart on something. And it would seem that at six o’clock in the morning, his heart is set on convincing Louis to turn the boat around. He’s ridiculous.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, Louis.” Niall folds his arms across his chest, tugging away the curtain giving Louis’ berth a semblance of privacy.

The pillow over Louis’ head is not doing a good job of blocking Niall out. “He thinks we’re just fun.”

“ _You_ told him you two were a bit of fun, _you_ interrupted him to tell him you were leaving, and then _you_ left. On a boat. Just like his ex. Before the wedding.” Niall is far too blunt for his own good. The only people who seem to mind though, aren’t Niall, so Louis supposes he’s too blunt for Louis’ good. Especially at six AM.

“Exactly. I left.” Louis curls his fist around the fabric of Harry’s scarf, hidden under the blankets. “And I never promised I’d go to the wedding.”

“Strongly hinted at it.”

Louis sighs. “Just let me wake up in peace, Niall.”

Niall leaves, and Louis is alone with his thoughts. And a creeping feeling of guilt he can’t escape.

 ---

 

“So, seriously.” Louis has been out of the tiny shower compartment for less than twenty seconds, and Niall is already in Louis’ face. “You’re miserable.”

“I am not.” Louis tucks the ends of his towel snugly around his waist.

“You look terrible.”

“Gee thanks, Niall-- Stop!” He swats Niall’s hands away from where he’s pulling at the end of Louis’ towel.

Niall holds his hands up, eyes wide. “Okay, okay. I’m just trying to--” he sighs. “Look. You’re going to sabotage a good thing. Just because you’re a stubborn shite with a pole up your arse. I’ve talked to the lads…”

Louis is only just now noticing Josh’s head poking around the doorway.

“...and they agree! Now put some pants on, we’re going back.”

Silence.

Then: “What?”

Niall nods. “Yeah. Wind’s behind us, if we go now we can be back in time for the reception.”

Louis wonders how it’s possible to hate someone so strongly you’d happily throw them to the sharks, at the same time as loving them so thoroughly you’d throw _yourself_ to the sharks. Somehow Niall makes it so.

He’s going back for Harry. The Queen of the Underworld is taking him back to Harry. There’s something a little ironic about it, Louis thinks.

 (x)

 

Harry forces himself to focus on the wedding. Sebastian’s big day and he can’t even hold himself together long enough to take a shot with the rest of the wedding party. If he started drinking, he doesn’t know if he could stop.

“Your man not staying, then?” One of the Americans, materialised from somewhere behind Harry.

“He’s not my man.”

She shrugs, raises her glass of Sambuca in a half-toast. “Suit yourself.”

Harry goes back to… Not moping. There’s a wedding in two hours, a wedding he’s been looking forward to for _months_. He can’t afford to mope. Instead, he hunkers down in his seat and practises smiling. He gets quite good at it by the time the groom’s side is ready to begin the trek to the church.

“Got the rings?” Sebastian chaps him on the shoulder, smile stretching his face into a map of creases. There’s a hint of worry behind his eyes, for Harry, not the rings, but Harry pats his breast pocket regardless.

“Present!” One large, convincing grin and they’re off. Ducks in a line, revellers to a messiah, extended friends and family to a building on a cliff. Harry’s smile is genuine this time despite the rattling feeling of stones in his chest – empty, yet endlessly heavy at the same time.

The ceremony is long. Lovely. But long, as typifies Greek weddings. A lovely, long time for Harry not to have to think about anything except offering up the rings on cue. To not think about boys who leave him on boats.

And then it’s time for the reception and for the speech he’s been preparing and looking forward to for _ages_ , and he can’t think about Louis at all anymore because he’s surrounded by people who’ve become his family and that’s enough for now.

 (x)

 

When Louis had pictured seeing Harry again, he’d seen it going one of two ways. The first, and best option, was Harry being unaffected. Happy, normal, not missing Louis at all and proving Niall wrong. It would hurt, but it’d be better than option two. Which was that he’d be miserable.

Instead Harry looks… fine. Like he’s holding himself together so no-one notices the redness around his eyes and the inward curl of his shoulders. This is worse by far, knowing that he’s truly hurt Harry, that he’d put Harry through exactly what Dominic did.

When Harry stands up from his seat, wearing the suit Louis had seen in his wardrobe, Louis’ stomach aches. Harry, no longer Louis’ to touch and run gentle fingers over, is breathtaking. He’s a contradiction of angles and soft planes, shirt pulling over his shoulders, thighs a soft swell beneath perfectly tailored trousers. Louis lets his eyes linger on the soft black cummerbund sitting low and snug on Harry’s hips.

It’s coming to the end of the speeches when Liam drapes himself along Louis’ side. “Not chickening out?”

 _No_. Louis had already done that when he’d left Kalokairi. He’s not going to back out of this. He stands up. “Hi, sorry. I know you all want to get up, get dancing,” he apologises to the gathering. “I’m not much for speeches, but I just want to say on behalf of me and the lads, congrats.”

He catches Harry’s eye in the crowd but he immediately looks away. Harry’s frozen in his seat, stock still and waif pale. He’s glad for the fact that he’s already got a whole speech planned and blocked out on the back of a map. It was the only paper they could find on short notice, when Niall and Liam had sat him down on the return trip and squeezed a speech out of him. Louis would be nowhere without his boys.

“Sebastian, you got the best of the bunch, didn’t you?” Donna looks stunning, genuinely stunning - not just a pleasantry. She’s wearing a simple vintage dress, lace and soft layers and tiny flowers sewn into the material. “You’d best be glad I don’t swing that way, or you might have a little competition.

“Donna, you didn’t do too bad yourself, did you? Perfect genes for angel babies or sommat.” Everyone laughs. The happy couple blushes and Sebastian ducks into Donna’s shoulder. “Anyway,” Louis continues. “I had some time to prepare a little-- Um, well, just-- Here we go. Right.” This is more nerve wracking than anything he’s ever done in his life.

“Um-- I’ve always sort of _believed_ in love, I s’pose, just never found it. When I was a kid, me mum used to tell me all sorts of bedtime stories about soulmates and life partners. She’d say I’d _just know_ when I met The One; that it’d be like a magical wee elf turned the lights on in my chest.” He pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. Niall nudges his foot. He doesn’t dare look at Harry.

“She also used to tell me not to get anyone pregnant. Look how that turned out, right?” Lead by Niall’s raucous chuckle, the wedding guests laugh. “So anyway, I just went along with my life and all my mates were meeting people and elves were lighting up fucking _Christmas_ trees in their chests, and I found that spontaneous adventures brought me more elves with lights than-- than dating did.”

Louis is finding his stride, managing to forget about all the people watching and focusing on the comfort of his crewmates either side of him. “And then I ended up here, on the back of one of those adventures.

“Back in England I was doing all sorts of mad shit - took up smoking, bought meself a hot lap a few weeks after Lewis Hamilton won another Grand Prix, went skydiving, left home to go deep sea fishing! Taking risks, right? Every mother’s worst nightmare in a son.” He catches Elena nodding along, and closes his eyes.

“Coming here, this island, you people… Well, I left yesterday instead of taking a risk.” Louis looks up for the last time and this time, meets Harry’s stare; commits the shine of his eyes, the colour of his skin under the lights, to memory. “And not to go after that, not to take the risk when it’s so close you could just reach out and touch it-- is mad.”

There’s a lump in his throat and it seems impossible that he’d going to get anything else out but, somehow, he manages to. “I’ve lived my life scared of my elf leaving me, so I made sure I never found it. But sometimes, the difference between what we want, and what we fear,” Harry is still looking at him, hands hovering between his waist and his mouth, “is the width of an eyelash.

“So I learnt that maybe it’s not about elves and one person out of seven billion. In the end, it’s all very simple.”

A deep breath.

“All it takes it to look into someone’s eyes, and say, yes,” someone in the audience gasps, “this is what I want.” He glances from Harry to Niall and back. He almost can’t bare to finish his sentence. “And for them to reply, it’s what I want, too, and there’s nothing to be afraid of. When you meet someone worth staying for, that’s magic enough.”

There are definite tears in his eyes and Louis blinks them away before he can betray himself anymore. He clears his throat, raises his glass to the courtyard. The best way to fool someone is to fool yourself first, after all. Far better to pretend he hasn’t just announced his love for Harry at someone else’s wedding.

“So! To Donna and Sebastian! May you love each other adventurously, always.”

He doesn’t drop eye contact with Harry, even when he sits down, and when someone starts the music and everyone makes their way to the dance floor, he tracks Harry’s footsteps through the maze of tables.

“Did you steal your speech from The Marigold Hotel?” Harry’s voice cracks and his face is so, _so_ open.

“Well,” Louis clears his throat, nervous in a way he hasn’t been around Harry for a long, long time. “Not all of it.”

Harry’s shaking his head before Louis has even finished speaking, and his heart drops. _It’s too late. He may have won the audience over, but it was too little, too late._ Louis doesn’t blame Harry. Not at all.

“It’s what I want, too.”

Louis drops his head, presses his lips into his teeth and concentrates on his accepting face. “I-- I understand, Harry. I--” _Wait._ “You-- Pardon?”

A smile plays across Harry’s lips. “It’s what _I want, too_.” He chews on his thumbnail and his eyes laugh at Louis. “That’s what you said, right? ‘Nothing to be afraid of?’ Is this ringing any bells?” He’s properly laughing at Louis now. Cheeky sod.

“You,” Louis grits his teeth together, refuses to smile at the ridiculous man in front of him. “You’re _such_ a fucking-”

Harry is shaking his head. “Nope. That’s not how it goes. Bill Nighy wouldn’t swear at Judi Dench.”

Louis doesn’t have a response for that beyond, “That’s _Dame_ Judi to you and I.”

Thankfully, Harry hears it for what it is, and grins. He pulls Louis into his chest, large hand curved around the back of Louis’ head to cradle him against his chest. The music doesn’t match the mood - everyone around them jumping to beat the band - but it’s perfect, nevertheless.

They stand there softly swaying, until Louis pulls away to stretch up on his toes a press their mouths together. He’s interrupted before he’s all of the way there.

There is a tremendous _booming_ noise as the already cracked concrete just a few feet to the right of Harry opens up, an absolute _flood_ of water bursting out. They’re both sopping wet within seconds. A grin splits Harry’s face in two and he ducks close to Louis’ ear, yelling above the noise of rushing water. “It’s Aphrodite!”

Around them, the wedding guests are screaming in laughter, men ripping their shirts open and women kicking their shoes off and hoiking up their dresses to run under the spray of water. Louis ignores them all and clutches Harry’s shoulders, fits their mouths together.

The kiss is more water than anything else and Louis keeps inhaling liquid, but it’s perfect. _‘True love and eternal happiness’_ Louis remembers Harry saying, the day that he left.

“Yes,” is all Louis says. Because _yes_. If this is true love and happiness, then Louis never wants anything else.

 (x)

 

Harry’s first thought upon seeing Louis again was _‘bastard.’_ A bright wave of anger had washed over him, anger at the _unfairness_ of it all, at how Louis could just come _waltzing_ back into his life like he belonged there.

And then there had been despair when Harry realised that Louis _didn’t belong_ , did he? He was always just visiting, merely passing by on his way to the rest of his life. Then shame. Cold shame that he had been blind to the temporary nature of Louis in his life.

After that, when Louis stood up from his seat across the courtyard and bore holes into Harry with shockingly blue eyes, there had been an odd, painful mixture of fear and acceptance. He was reserved to meet whatever Louis said with the steadfast indifference he’d upheld in the months after Dominic.

Instead, Louis didn’t give him a choice. More eloquent than Harry had ever heard him, so simple and somehow, so naively romantic that Harry had no hope of pretending not to care. Not when Louis was telling _hundreds_ of people that he’d made a mistake, that Harry was his _soulmate_.

Harry had fallen into Louis, trusting the blindly hopeful side of himself, and ignoring the logistics, ignoring anything except the world they’d created under the burst pipe, in the courtyard, on an island named after summer.

The other side, the one that couldn’t just roll over and play dead in the face of an approaching storm, waits until they’re lying in Harry’s bed to speak its mind.

Harry is lying flat on his back, one arm folded above his head, the other drawing lazy patterns over the soft skin of Louis’ bare chest. Someone had eventually realised that the burst pipe beneath the cobblestones would need dealing with, and Harry had left the party to turn off the water mains until the morning. Louis had followed him, pressed sopping wet against Harry’s back, slipping warm fingers between the buttons of Harry’s shirt.

They’d returned to the throng of guests and gotten pleasantly tipsy on the sugary drinks on offer. One plus of a home bar - an endless tab and no bill to pay at the end. Eventually, when most of the guests had trickled off to bed, Harry had taken Louis’ hand and lead him upstairs to his room. Louis had fallen asleep instantly, curling up next to Harry and emitting delicate snores into the soft skin against his ear.

That was less than an hour ago. Harry is tired, hadn’t slept much in the time Louis was gone, but he can’t turn his brain off. Louis seems to sense his restlessness and snuffles himself awake.

“It’s-” he fumbles out for the bedside clock and groans at the green light, “two A.M. Christ.” Louis yawns and brings the hand not currently sandwiched between Harry and the sheets up to rub at his eye. “Is everything alright? I could hear you thinkin’. Woke me up.”

Maybe it’s the small hour or the alcohol still zinging through his veins but Harry doesn’t censor his thoughts. “Niall said you’re leaving.”

Through the dim light of the room Harry can see Louis’ expression arrange itself into a sleepy frown. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” Harry says. “You’re leaving.”

“Umm…” The mattress shifts underneath Harry as Louis struggles to sit up against the headboard.

“Did you mean any of it, then?” Harry’s stomach is twisting itself into knots, turning in on itself again and again as he waits for Louis to confirm it.

"I-- What... Harry, it’s the middle of the night." Louis says, voice tight with something Harry can’t quite put his finger on.

"Right.” He swallows thickly and turns onto his side, away from Louis. He tugs the sheets tighter about himself, eager to sink into the relative protection they offer from his conversation. “Night."

Louis sighs. Touches Harry’s shoulder with gentle fingers. "Liam needs to get back to --"

Harry doesn’t want Louis to _explain_. He wants to pretend this whole thing isn’t happening, that he hadn’t opened his mouth and ruined things. He should have just enjoyed being with Louis while it lasted, no matter how finite that time may have been.

"It's fine. I know."

"It takes a week. At least, to get to England..."

"Louis. I said I get it."

"I don’t have a girlfriend."

 _God_ , this whole thing is so awful.

"I should hope not."

Louis sighs again, as if Harry’s being dense. He’s not. He’s being a good… whatever he is to Louis. He’s being understanding. Before Harry can snap at him about it, the pressure of Louis’ hand grows and Harry’s being rolled over onto his back.

Louis’ face appears above him, soft and gentle and _so_ bloody beautiful. “I actually thought I might stay here. For a bit. Thought my-- my boyfriend might appreciate it."

Harry's heart stutters. "Boyfriend?"

"Yes. Did you miss everything I said at the wedding? What happened to love and perfect happiness?" An amused current runs through his voice.

"'S just a myth Lou."

"Hey now. Careful who you’re talking to. I thought mermaids were a story as well."

Harry rolls his eyes, props himself up on one elbow so he can feel Louis’ breath against his upper lip. "Don’t tell me you saw a mermaid."

"I did. I did!” Louis says again when Harry gives a derisive snort. “On the boat."

"When you left?" He can’t help it.

"Are you going to let that go?" Louis teases. He runs soft fingers back and forth along Harry’s ticklish inner arm.

"Only if you kiss me.” He kicks softly at the sharp ankles woven between his own. “And get your clammy feet away from me."

Louis’ sharp laugh breaks the stillness of the night air and even through the gloom of the room Harry can see the white of his grin, wickedly sharp canines tucked up against his bottom lip. He brings his hands up to cup Louis’ chin. “Well alright.”

Louis kisses back with gusto, just the right side of tender, yet leaving no space between their bodies. He slips just the tips of his fingers beneath the fabric of Harry’s briefs, doesn’t delve any deeper than the beginning of the thatch of coarse hair curling at his groin.

Harry gives a happy little moan into the kiss, skates his hands up and down Louis’ chest, petting through his chest hair and making tiny, explorative circles around the dusky pink of his nipples. Louis keens into his mouth and, _oh_. Harry tucks that away for later. Later, _later_ , later because they have a later now, they have all the time in the world, and Harry’s not planning to waste it this time.

“I do quite like you.” Louis pulls away from Harry’s mouth to nuzzle into the curls around his ear. “Hades.”

“Mmn,” Harry smiles, sleepy. “Shh. Sleep now,” he flaps a hand between them and the bed. “S- _stuff_ , later.”

He falls asleep with Louis’ head a soothing weight over his heart. _Yes_ , he thinks, _true love and perfect happiness_.

 ---  
CODA  
\---

 

It’s dark when they leave. There’s only the barest breath of wind, not enough to break the warm night. Lights filter down from the houses above, cast reflections against the gentle waves at the jetty. It’s quiet, too, despite the people gathered at the beach.

The villa has been a cesspool of noise and chaos since the wedding, and the quiet of the thick night air is a welcome reprieve. For the first time in weeks, there’s silence. The _Persephone_ had sailed two days after the wedding, Niall hanging over the stern waving a tea towel in farewell.

Harry had watched them leave this time around, hand raised in his own goodbye, eyes squinted against the wind, swaying backwards into Louis’ arms. Louis had smelled like trapped sunshine, clean and warm, and also like the pancakes they’d had for breakfast.

They had stood there, wrapped around each other at the end of the jetty, until the shape of the little fishing boat was lost against the horizon. Louis had pressed gentle fingers into Harry’s belly, urged him away from the ocean and back to the villa.

That had been almost a month ago. Now, Harry is sitting on the narrow seat of the dinghy, small overnight bag at his feet. Louis is standing a few feet in front of him, legs splayed in an attempt to counteract the rocking of the waves. It seems almost the entirety of the island has appeared to see them off, loading them with platitudes and soft smiles.

“Kalokairi will miss you, Haz.” Sebastian crouches on the jetty above Harry’s head, presses a firm kiss to his temple.

“ _I’ll_ miss _it_ ,” Harry says. He thinks of everything that’s happened since he’d arrived with Dominic, all those years ago. He wouldn’t change anything about it for the world, without Dominic he never would have come here, to these people and this life. He never would have grown into himself, grown into his legs and his feet and his _skin,_ if it weren’t for Kalokairi. He doubts he would have met Louis, either, but stranger things have happened.

Stranger things such as Harry taking another boy up on his offer to row him over to the little island.

“Hey,” Louis’ voice breaks Harry out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see that Louis is now sitting, knees knocking against Harry’s with every cresting wave. “You all set?”

Harry takes one last deep, fortifying breath and squeezes Louis’ hand. “All set.”

They leave to a chorus of well-wishes and love, the people Harry has grown to love so well watching him leave with the man who Harry is still learning to love.

Harry feels lit up with warmth from the inside out, a gentle pressure beneath his skin sending out pulses of light and happiness. He’s conscious of the bag at his feet - filled with a few clothes for him and Louis, and a sketchpad. The rest of his things had been sent to the mainland with the boat yesterday, had started the next part of his journey ahead of time.

“Lou?” Harry asks, steepling his fingers in his lap. “If mermaids existed, they’d be right here.”

“No.” Louis’ reply is swift, as if he’d been waiting for this moment for weeks. “This is the Aegean.”

Harry huffs out a gentle sigh of a laugh and rests his elbow on the side of the dinghy, letting his fingers trail through the cool, dark water. “Practically the Mediterranean.”

“No. Not at all. It’s the Aegean. I know. I’m a fisherman.” He shoots Harry a look which is unbearably smug, and when Harry sticks his tongue out, his eyes turn achingly fond.

“I lived here. You’re practically an amateur compared to that.”

Louis shakes his head definitively. “You are an idiot. It’s not the Mediterranean. We can visit Spain, if you like, when we get back. _Then_ you can look for all the mermaids you like.”

It shuts Harry up, just like Louis knew it would. Talking about _‘when they get back’,_ about a life together, in England, never fails to make Harry squirm and clam up - endearingly giddy to have finally found something - some _one_ \- to break his ties to Greece.

With Louis, there’s nothing holding him to Kalokairi any longer. He’s finally found someone worth moving on for; someone who presses himself along Harry’s side while he paints and would never leave without telling him.

Louis had talked about elves and finding The One. Harry thinks that there’s more than one person for everyone, plenty of - and he smirks to himself - fish in the sea. But Louis makes Harry’s chest light up, and Harry can see them making a life for themselves back home; back where mum and Gemma are, where both their childhoods are. He can see himself meeting Louis’ family, can see Christmases split between Yorkshire and Cheshire, can see their house on the coast, a nod to the time they met on an island named after summer.

As if reading his mind, Louis reaches out to stroke gentle fingers against the inside of Harry’s wrist, and this time, as the little dinghy rows out into whatever fucking sea it is, Harry isn’t left behind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do go and check out Colin Firth's wet t shirt scene in Mamma Mia - the scene which (in part) inspired this. Shameless plug as usual - I'm [stylanarry](http://stylanarry.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you wanted to have a nosy, and I have a tag for this universe [here](http://stylanarry.tumblr.com/tagged/mmia) :)
> 
> Comments make me unbelieveably happy :)) xx


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